RipplesV1
by Bloody Mary
Summary: Some decisions change much more than you'd expect, for good or for bad. Set during the Great Crusade; focus on World Eaters, Death Guard and Emperor's Children
1. Hound of War I

**Foreword**

_I admit that interviewing the First Captain of the War Hounds was one of the most daun__ting tasks in my whole carrier. Even if we forget the Legion's penchant for savagery and bloodlust (and you can rest assured that I remembered it very well), there's Captain Kharn's own fearsome reputation. I am sure you can imagine my trepidation when the Captain himself expressed his interest in letting me interview him. _

_During the conversations that lead to the creation of this very tome, I have learned that there is much more to Captain Khrn then meets the eye. While indisputably one of the most feral of the Marines holding his rank, he is also a man of formidable intelligence and I believe his observations will give the readers more insight into the workings of the Great Crusade, as well shed more light on the latest, traumatic conflict._

_While editing my work, I have strived to minimize my input and in doing so let the reader enjoy the Captain's narrative with as little change as possible._

_I've been told I should write something to the readers. While the whole book is going to be mostly me talking, Maxim insisted it's absolutely vital that the foreword isn't just by him. _

_In all honesty, I was not in favour of the whole rememberencer concept, when I first heard of it, but I didn't piss and moan about it like some. It has been already implemented, so why bother? Besides, I thought all those civilian sissies would avoid us like the plague. I was in for a surprise and quick: the Primarch was actually all for the idea._

_As odd as it might sound there was a logic behind his enthusiasm for a project that had so little to do with his interests. It was related to how he perceived the Emperor, beloved by all. I remember him saying, as if it were today, "Having Fulgrim be Mortarion's nanny looked funny at the time and just look at them now."_

_So, I figured I might as well get over the whole thing before I get asked to participate. I can see Maxim doesn't mention exactly why I chose him. Out of the whole lot, he was the only one that clobbered a trooper when he annoyed him and then held of three others with a chair. I thought I'd nab him before anybody else gets the idea and I'll be left with a quivering sycophant._

_It turned out that we got along pretty well, once he stopped flinching every time I frowned. And that's how I ended up co-authoring a book. I just hope nobody will have to read it at schola._

_Enough of my ramblings and onto more of my rambling._

**Beginnings**

I'm not going to start with the real beginning. Everybody knows how everything started. What happened before the Emperor, beloved by all, discovered Angron is of little consequence.

_The Captain pauses __and shakes his head._

That's a bad way of putting it. As far as the War Hounds go, what happened with us before the Emperor discovered Angron, is not as important as what came afterwards. We got deployed and we fought. Then the other Legions started finding their Primarchs and we started to worry that ours might be too badly lost to find him.

Then one day, we get summoned to accompany the Emperor to some system and then are told to stay in orbit and await further instructions, once we get there. So, we do just that. It took about three days, before the Captains got summoned. You can imagine how puzzled we were—no orders to deploy, just the captains and the Chief Apothecary are supposed to get to the Bucephalos.

I don't think we made the best of impressions on Angron back then. We walked into the conference hall, huddled up and looking as confused as we were and there he was standing next to the Emperor.

I'll never forget the sight. His face looked like it was covered in blood, decorated with red tattoos and he glared at us with such fury. Compared to the Emperor, he looked wild and brutal, like a wild animal. But he was our Primarch and we knew we would do anything to win his approval.

Then Ghreer started sobbing.

_We had to t__ake a break at this point, as the Captain felt necessary to voice his disapproval for the ex-Legion Master's conduct. I have significantly expanded my vocabulary during that hour._

It's hard to explain. You can probably insert one of those sappy monologues that Emperor's Child produced when he had to describe meeting his Primarch. It was something like that only more manly. What I am trying to say is that all Legions got emotional when their Primarch was found. They're the… the… living embodiment of the Legion. Something like a father to us and a leader, all in one.

What I'm trying to say is, we all were pretty damn happy to see Angron and we're no good when it comes to a whole lot of things that are not related to war. Essentially, we acted like a bunch of morons, Ghreer taking the cake, candles and several stupid party hats to go with them.

The Emperor, in his eternal wisdom, did not interfere, as we made idiots out of ourselves. I spent several minutes staring at Angron like an utter moron—I'm really not sure if I remember accurately what the others were doing. However, at some point, my brain turned on again and I managed to kneel.

In retrospect, it was the dumbest thing I could have done, but at that point I knew next to nothing about our Primarch. It seemed natural. Next thing I know Angron is hovering over me, mid-strike and the only thing between me and a messy death is the Emperor's hand.

The next few moments, we spent learning that our Primarch really hates kneeling and he does not want to see us ever doing it in front of him. I never said it, but I was wondering how we'd manage that. If you ever meet a Primarch, you will notice that kneeling is almost a natural reflex. Thankfully, the Emperor managed to keep our Primarch from throwing us around the hall.

We managed to introduce ourselves in the end and it turned out I was the only one around with enough presence of mind left to string more than one sentence together. This being the case, I did my best to explain that we're really glad he has been finally found. The funny thing is, I don't really remember what I said. I remember that Angron was staring at me and I that he was wearing a kilt, and a lot of other inconsequential details, but not what I said. Odd, isn't it?

_Luckily, the speech Captain Kharn gave need not remain lost to posterity. Primarch Angron himself decided to quote it for my benefit, once he found out that the Captain claimed to be unable to do so. (Incidentally, not kneeling had been amazingly difficult.)_

"My Liege, we did not intend to insult you with our conduct. We are soldiers, not diplomats. We speak through actions, not words. To us, you are our long lost father. Be our leader; command us and we will follow."

I must have sounded at least half-way sensible since Angron seemed to calm down somewhat. Though, the Emperor, beloved by all, holding his shoulder helped much more.

"I already agreed to lead you," he said. "You were called, because this planet," he indicated the display, "needs to be conquered. Soon you will be deployed."

That was a surprising turn of events. As far as I can remember, all the other Primarchs upon being found had had already conquered the planet of their origin. I suppose, this is why the Emperor stepped in and started to explain Angron's background to us. I have to say we did not take it well.

_As it turns out the War Hounds, if Captain Kharn is a good example to go by, still "do not take it well." The following citation is actually compiled from several attempts at explaining, which had been punctuated by frequent swearing and several thrown objects, among which had been a rather nice table. _

"Unlike his more fortunate brothers, Angron's past has not been one I would have wished my son to have. A barbarous practice is the main entertainment on his home planet. Slaves are forced to participate in gladiatorial combat for the amusement of the nobles. Your Primarch has been one of them.

"Recently, he has led his fellow gladiators into rebellion, but, alas, their forces were too weak. Had we arrived scant days later, he would have been annihilated along with his forces. On his request, we have evacuated his army along with him. They will be joining the War Hound's fleet as soon a certain other matter is resolved."

It was only due to the Emperor's presence and his force of personality that we started yelling about going down right then and there, and chewing our chainaxes after he finished talking. No unaugmented human can imagine our fury. The Emperor raised his hands and we fell silent. It does not meant that we stopped being furious. Far from it. However, we simply could not disobey him.

_The Captain stares at a point over my head, deep in thought, as he speaks._

Primarchs are already far beyond what a human being can perceive, but with time one can learn to treat them differently than just mindless worship. The Emperor is not like that. His presence is far too great to ever forget. If you are in his vicinity, he becomes the center of whatever is happening. There cannot be a being greater than him.

So, we had no choice, but listen as our Lord explained why he would not lead us into battle.

"I wouldn't be a good leader right now," he said and tapped his head. "All gladiators have an implant that boosts the adrenaline production once we're under stress."

To my embarrassment, the Chief Apothecary had to explain why this was a bad thing to me and the other Captains. Essentially, it would limit the victim's ability to analyze stressful situations properly, leaving them with only the option of fighting. While in combat it could be a benefit, it would put a damper on many other situations.

"Think of meeting a long lost family member," he told us. "Anybody would worry over making the right impression. That's stress. Add those Butcher's Nails and you have an explosive fit of fury, because you're going to meet somebody you don't know."

That certainly put the scale of the problem into perspective. And we aren't just speaking about Angron here, but also about a whole army of gladiators with the same issue. Our joy at having found our Primarch was rather diminished by those revelations.

Our moods were somewhat brightened by the fact that we would lay our vengeance upon those that brought those problems upon our Lord.


	2. Less Perfect I

**Less Perfect**

Fulgrim did not stare, but he came pretty close to it. While he was happy and flattered that the Emperor of Mankind, beloved by all, had chosen him to be the mentor of another Primarch, he found the choice odd. There was no question of him doubting his father, nevertheless the word "but" hovered in his mind and begged for him to finish the sentence. His brother was so… grey: his clothes, his complexion, everything. It was almost as if he had been somehow drained of all colour, save for the amber eyes.

The Phoenician also took note of the scars on the other Primarch's face. Some of them appeared old, but others were new and still red. To be honest, Fulgrim's first impression was bad—couldn't he have at least tried to look less... mundane? Still, he could not help but wonder what could have caused those wounds? Primarchs were a pretty durable lot, after all.

"This is Mortarion," the Emperor, beloved by all, announced, placing his armored hand on the shoulder of his other son. It did not escape Fulgrim's notice that Mortarion flinched, even if it was only ever so slightly. Puzzling as it was, he could not ignore it. Had something happened between Father and this new brother?

However, this was neither the time nor the place to start inquiries. Fulgrim smiled at Mortarion and closed the distance between them in several steps.

"Welcome, brother," he said, embracing the other. "I am Fulgrim."

A moment later, he stepped back, feeling awkward. Mortarion hadn't done anything and that was the reason for Fulgrim's unease. The other Primarch hadn't moved an inch; it felt like he was hugging a pole. Perhaps, in retrospect, he shouldn't have assumed that Mortarion would react positively to being suddenly touched by somebody whom he had only just met. To Fulgrim it seemed natural to cordially welcome each and everyone of his newly discovered brothers, but this was no reason to forget about cultural differences, or not to take into account the differences in personality.

"Greetings," Mortarion replied quietly after a moment – long enough to make the silence awkward. He didn't sound pleased, either. If anything, he sounded uninterested and maybe regretful, but of that Fulgrim was not certain.

Nevertheless, it was a little hint of sadness there that kept the Phoenician from announcing that as flattering as his father's request was, he was not going to tutor Mortarion. He could have declined, as hard as that would have been, but he didn't want to simply abandon one of his brothers. Grey and gloomy as this one was, Fulgrim couldn't just go away. Brothers should help each other.

"I am glad to finally meet you, brother," he replied a smile creeping back onto his face. To be completely honest, it was a lie, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't somehow make it become reality. At that moment, he had to deal with a suspicious look that Mortarion gave him. He tried to deflect it with a smile and it seemed to work, as Mortarion's features, or what was visible of them, eased back into neutrality.

"You will be able to learn much from Fulgrim," the Emperor addressed Mortarion. "Take his advice to heart, my son."

Fulgrim's heart lept at the praise and he basked in its glory. Father appreciated him; it was all he wanted from him.

"However, I think you can learn from Mortarion, too, Fulgrim," the Emperor continued.

It took not only Fulgrim by surprise, but Mortarion as well. Both looked at each other: Fulgrim taking in the gaunt figure in a drab grey cloak. Out of all his brothers, he would have placed Mortarion fairly low on the impressiveness scale and when it came to assigning value, Fulgrim usually placed a lot of it on appearance.

Slowly, it dawned on him that Mortarion was equally surprised. They appeared so different; Fulgrim in his golden and purple armor, dashing and bold; Mortarion looking like a gloomy specter, withdrawn and silent. Being the one to introduce somebody so fundamentally different from oneself to the duties of a Primarch was a daunting perspective and Fulgrim felt a small pang of doubt. Was he really up to the task?

The Emperor was watching him, though, and Fulgrim was not going to give up on something his father asked him to do before even trying.

"As you command, Father," he said, nodding.

* * *

Mortarion poked a golden leaf with his finger, looking at it as if it had offended him on a deep and private level. He shook his head, still taking in the ornaments decorating the corridor that led from the deck of the _Pride of the Emperor_ to Fulgrim's private quarters. This was a military space ship; its purpose was to carry troops from one place to another and yet it appeared to be more of a flying art gallery. What could be the point?

He didn't feel comfortable on this ship. It was so impractical, so different from what he had known his whole life. Fulgrim was the same. He could close his eyes and remember the elaborate golden ornaments decorating the purple armour, the long lustrous hair and the unblemished face. He didn't look like somebody who had ever had to work for his life, let alone fight.

The attempt at a warm welcome had been quite nice, though, and he felt rather bad about not reciprocating. He had meant to, but his wounds from his journey to his father's stronghold had not fully healed. Fulgrim, quite unfortunately, managed to place his arm over one such spot. It had been unpleasant enough for Mortarion to freeze. He supposed he'd have to explain it later.

With a sigh, Mortarion thought that the Emperor simply didn't like him: otherwise, why would he have chosen somebody so fundamentally different from him to teach Mortarion? It didn't make any sense at all.

Nevertheless, Mortarion had promised to serve the Imperium of Mankind and that meant following the Emperor's orders. He would try to learn from this Fulgrim. If nothing else, the other Primarch had more experience in leading Astartes.

He finally stepped away from the wall and continued his way to Fulgrim's quarters, trying to ignore all the ornaments that simply did not belong on a battleship. Once he finally entered the room, he had to wonder if he really was in the right place. Surely, a room like that did not belong to a general? The ornamental furniture, the paintings decorating the walls, everything really, screamed of decadence and wastefulness to him. All the resources that went into furnishing this room; he couldn't help but to consider how he'd use them.

He looked around, still, almost in fascination. He had never seen so much luxury in one place. His gaze met white stony eyes. There was an unfinished sculpture in the corner. If Mortarion was right it was meant to be one of the Marines from Fulgrim's Legion. He stepped away from it; there was just something wrong about it. He could still feel it staring at the back of his neck with its empty stone eyes.

"Good day?" he said.

Fulgrim did not appear to be there, but this didn't mean he shouldn't announce he was present. There was a reply, but it was distorted by a wall and then a door creaked. Fulgrim emerged from what appeared to be a bathroom, from the glimpse Mortarion managed to catch.

His "brother" was dressed only in a towel.

"Oh. I thought you'd take more time to explore," he said grinning, quite unperturbed at being essentially naked. "I'm quite sure this is all new to you and you must be curious about your new surroundings. Really, there is no need for you to-"

Mortarion stared. He really had nothing to say, well other then _ohmyyourpretty_, which was definitely not what one said to his brother. Then he realized he was staring and said, trying not to sound too cowed, "I can wait outside."

Belatedly, he realized he interrupted Fulgrim. Still, it had mostly been the same over and over with a side-dish of ego.

"I'm not sure, if I follow?" Fulgrim's tone made it quite clear he had no idea what Mortarion had wanted to say.

"For you to get dressed," the newly-found Primarch of the Dusk Raiders supplied. His lips twitched, as he realized that the situation was rather humoristic. It was not the highest sort of humour, but nevertheless, he was beginning to feel amused.

Fulgrim looked like he was about to say something, but he closed his mouth before making a sound and smiled. Only then did he address Mortarion. "Take a seat; I shall go back to the bathroom. There is no need for you to wait outside."

* * *

Once he was properly attired, Fulgrim re-emerged from his bathroom. While still somewhat puzzled at Mortarion's reaction, he didn't begrudge it. Logically, he was aware that culture was responsible for such things like reacting to seeing your long lost brother dressed only in a towel with embarrassment. It was the same situation as with demonstrating public affection. Obviously, Mortarion just didn't feel comfortable around Fulgrim.

The realization knocked his mood down a peg or two. He had tried to welcome his new brother and yet it wasn't helping at all. The thought had him falter mid-step. What if he never managed to close the distance between him and Mortarion? Father would be disappointed. The mere thought made him feel sick. He did not want to fail in living up to Father's expectations.

Then he looked up and noticed Mortarion looking at him with a faint smile. It was pale and barely noticeable, but once he observed it, he could tell it was friendly.

Fulgrim, true to his nature, grinned at the sight. If somebody like Mortarion was smiling then clearly things were not nearly as bad as he had feared. Besides, if Father chose Fulgrim for the task, then clearly, even if the Phoenician couldn't see it yet, he was the right person. He should never have doubted Father.

"Is there anything you wish to learn first?" he asked.

Mortarion looked at his hands, his brow creasing in a frown. Fulgrim wondered if he'd somehow managed to spoil whatever had made Mortarion smile. Perhaps he had even misinterpreted it? He'd already done so twice. Clearly, he wasn't very adept at reading his brother.

"About you," Mortarion replied, looking up.

* * *

**AN**

More Kharn comming next chapter. :)**  
**


	3. Hound of War II

Naturally, we prepared for war. Nobody should escape with what they did to our Lord unpunished. They obviously had expected something, though maybe not retribution: a whole army had just been snuck off the planet and they were advanced enough to detect incoming space ships. They just weren't prepared for us. We—that is the Eighth, the Sixth and the First Companies, deployed directly into their capital: Desh'ea. Our main objective was taking out the government.

_At this point I mentioned it must have been a difficult objective, having listened to several soldiers complain about having to fight in a city. The Captain saw fit to enlighten me on the differences between Space Marines and unaugmented soldiers at this point._

If you'd ask an officer of the Imperial Army, they'd tell you that fighting in a city is difficult. So many spots for ambushes that the defenders know, but you don't; so many places where you can place a sniper… We are a different story.

As I said, we deployed directly into their capital—that's what Drop Pods are for. That gave them little time to react: first it started raining metal from the sky and then we were pouring bolter rounds into them. It wasn't even their army we were facing at first; they were looking for their arses, while we were faced by their police forces.

My Eighth Company landed in a slum. We had to advance towards one of the more fancy quarters. We got to a… I think it was a bakery. I recall a smell of bread.

_At this point the Captain started making a plan of the city with the help of my favourite tea mug and his armor parts. He later agreed to sketch the progress of his company, which you will find attached at the end of the chapter._

There was a barricade there. Pathetic thing really, it wouldn't have held back a mob, let alone us. They tried shooting us, but that didn't stop us at all. It's really amazing how long it takes for people to realize they won't dent power armour. They were still shooting when we were on them. We are already furious by then—had been ever since Angron told us about those implants. And here we had those people trying to stop us.

So we slaughtered them.

_At this point we made a break, since the Captain __went to retrieve a dataslate with the recordings made by his helmet, mentioning something about pictures saying more than a thousand words. He was right. I was not prepared to witness what I did, but I shall endevour to share my impressions._

_The picture was shaking and it took me a moment to realize that it was because the Captain must have been running. There was a surprising amount of screaming__, too and it was the War Hounds doing it. I think this was the first thing that truly shocked me: I have always envisioned Space Marines as being somewhat dignified when they fight and my imagination had somehow never included them yelling wordlessly at the top of their lungs. _

_The__ barricade was made to stop normal people and such, not charging Astartes. It had been reinforced with some planks, but that didn't even slow the War Hounds down. In seconds they were upon the defenders. _

_Slaughter was an apt word here: I had never realized how much damage a chainaxe can do. The phrase that a person who'd never seen it may be tempted to use would be that it cuts through a body like a knife through butter. It's not an apt metaphor: a chainaxe tears more than it cuts. It's not a smooth process and neither is it clean. It's not just that there's a lot of blood, there were also chunks of meat and bone flying. One man managed to jump away in the last moment and instead of being cut in half, he only had his stomach ripped open. Blood and feces poured out as he fell to his knees and then on his face into this disgusting soup._

_That was the point where I had to urgently visit the toilet. I managed to preserve some of my dignity and did not sully the floor, though I think that did not make much of an impression on the Captain. When I returned he was watching me with exasperation._

What did you expect? It's war. We're there to kill. You think a man dying from a stroke is anymore **aesthetic** than that? Bah. Death's death and we're there to kill until they understand there is no other way but ours – or until there's nobody left. Their choice.

_I had only one way to regain my dignity. I had to watch the whole recording. I hope you all __will appreciate my sacrifice. It didn't get any better, but after a while I managed to recognise some overarching pattern._

_What surprised me was that the fighting wasn't really constant. It was more of a series of short skirmishes, with the War Hound__s all but trampling over their opponents. The Captain had been very helpful and informed me about such things like the force necessary to hit somebody hard enough to punch their head off and similar charming details. _

_At some point, I asked him about the way they moved through the city. It had seemed odd._

There are many different ways to plan a city, and Desh'ea had a circular design. No, it was more of a spiral—the main street was a spiral and it went through the whole city. Following it would have slowed us down, but then so would have had looking for shortcuts or demolishing too many buildings. One of us, I think it was Degwin—he's a Veteran Sergeant now—suggested we keep blowing up things. He really had, still has, an unhealthy obsession with blowing things up.

It's not really funny.

Stop laughing.

_I think I was sounding at least a bit hysterical at this point. It was not the easiest tale to listen to, I can tell you that._

We got to the governmental quarter by midday. **That** was where their soldiers were. Cowards, the lot of them. Yes, the soldiers, too—their damn police force had had more guts than they did. I know, I saw them. The rulers hid in their villas, the soldiers shot at us a few times and then they ran. For most of them it was the last time they'd run away from anything.

The Emperor, in his wisdom, had ordered us to take some of the dignitaries alive. It wasn't particularly hard, I have to say. Some people get amazingly cooperative when they see a Space Marine pointing a weapon at them.

Heh. I remember one time when one Blood Angel did it. He pointed his bolter and snarled, his pretty face all contorted—it looked rather funny to me, but the officer he was aiming at obviously did not share my amusement.

Sometimes just glaring works, or even just looking with mild disapproval. Never managed to pull the last one, but I remember an Ultramarine who could do it.

But, going back to the topic, after a day, Desh'ea was ours.

This was when they had figured out we were just plain better then their soldiers. But instead of doing the logical thing and giving up, they figured they'd continue fighting. It was the stupidest decision they could make. We had their leaders.

Instead, they decided to use the gladiators that hadn't joined the revolt as cannon fodder. Surprised? We were too. Obviously, Angron was right: those High Riders were not fit to live. Why hadn't all the gladiators joined him? Now I know it was all related to where they were from. The arena Angron fought in was in the capital, but there were others on the planet. In fact, why didn't the whole damn planet acknowledge he was right? That's just how Primarchs work. You can't conceive that they could be wrong and that anybody could disagree with them, but that's not the case. If you believe strongly enough in something you can stand up to them. I know I did. But we'll get to this later.

So, they sent the gladiators at us. That was stupid too. Remember the implants? **We** can run into enemy fire. We can fight equally with the strongest orks. They just ran into our axes.

_At this point I had the privilege of watching another recording. It was as shocking as the previous ones. A mass of bodies, armed __with close combat weapons, charged. They screamed, got in each other's way, trampled over each other. Then the War Hounds met them and started cutting through them like a harvester through wheat. _

_I hope I do not need to mention the gore? It's… disturbing in how many ways a human body can be maimed in combat. Lost limbs and heads are but the tip of the iceberg. Let us just say that yet again, I proved to be not ready for the horrors of combat and had to commune with the toilet._

_That summed all shortly just how bloody the whole fight had been._

In the end, we won. It didn't take long. As I already had mentioned, we were just plain better.

That was not the end of our troubles, though. First, there were the gladiators. The implants could be removed from Angron, but nobody else had the slimmest chance of suriving the surgery. Nobody was happy about that: we ended up stuck with an army of maniacs, who tended to fly into rage at the drop of a pin. You can imagine just to how many conflicts that lead. As you know, we're not the most peaceful of legions. Now, add the Imperial Army—they picked fights with them on a regular basis and it's not like soldiers are impossible to provoke-and you have a kind of flammable situation that's just waiting to explode. We were quite aware of this. Unfortunately, we couldn't exactly drop them off on some nice planet and just leave the populace to deal with them, now could we? Keeping them was ultimately the best choice, but it was far from ideal.

It was also the decision of our Primarch and the Emperor himself accepted it, so even if any of us had wanted to protest, there really was no point. I'm not saying they were bad, but at that point we weren't all that happy about them being around. We still remembered the remnants on their planet that we had fought.

This turned out to be a significant factor in Angron's early campaigns. He was used to commanding… undisciplined people. We are blood-thirsty, but we can control ourselves.

Most of the time.

Will you stop snickering?

I am not yelling!

_As you might imagine__, we had to take a break at this point, seeing that Captain Kharn saw fit to demonstrate how well the War Hounds control themselves. And to those who would accuse me of sarcasm, I would like to point out that I am still alive and well._

As I was saying, we weren't too happy about having those gladiators with us. Not all of them were glad about Angron's decision either. It might seem odd to you, but they thought he had robbed them of a chance to get even or at least die trying. _We_ were _his_ vessel for his anger, but not _theirs._ They didn't really have a chance to fight. On the other hand, he was still one of _them_ and not one of _us. _We were his vessel; they were his brothers and sisters.

If a fight broke out, he'd always side with them. He ate with them, he remained in the same part of the ship as they did. He knew them all by name, while with us… He was wary of us, not entirely convinced we're proper warriors. Back then, I think he thought of us as something between weapons, usurpers and strangers.

To us, it looked like those gladiators didn't appreciate that he had agreed to join the Imperium to save them from dying and being forgotten.

The first to voice their disapproval with just being taken away and not given a chance to fight was a slip of a girl, actually. I was quite surprised when she first marched up to our Primarch and started yelling. She had amazing lung capacity, though I'm afraid she didn't get much of an opportunity to demonstrate it.

We didn't kill her. Angron stopped us, but it was quite a scene nonetheless. Though, I'll give her credit for courage. Yelling at a Primarch is not something even Space Marines manage to do on a regular basis. I think I heard Abbaddon managed to actually have a row with Horus, but I have no idea how true that is.

You know, she actually wore her hair in pig-tails. It was one of the most surreal things I've ever seen: this girl, small with a huge scar across her face and her hair in pig-tails. She was even blonde, with freckles.

Our Primarch tried to explain. It was a bit like watching somebody trying to explain things to cudbear. It just didn't work at all; she'd been too angry to listen. In the end two other ex-gladiators dragged her off and I spent the next hour repeating variations of "I'm sure they'll understand once they calm down."

As you can imagine there was one problem with that—the ones that were angry did not calm down. Ever.

Still, we were…

_The Captain pauses, considering his words._

I think I can say we were happy. We had our Primarch and he would lead us. Once he was up again after the surgery, I had the privilege to train with him. It was amazing. I had no chance against him. Really, there was no comparison.

_At this point, the Captain suddenly punched the wall next to me. I barely had the time to flinch._

That's how fast we are. That's how strong we are. He's more than that. Where I make a crack, he can punch a hole. Where you can flinch from me, you wouldn't see him coming. Watching him fight was—is indescribable. It's best seen.

That was about the time when we were concluding military operations on the were the rulers of the planet and Angron had to start making his first difficult choices as a primarch. He'd have to practice on the nobility from his whole world.

He hated them. He called them High Riders and wanted them all dead. He had no mercy for them; the prisoners we had taken in Desh'ea were all executed. Bastards deserved all they got and more. I'd kill each and every one of them all over again, if I had a chance.

The planet was in disarray—fine, let's make that complete, utter chaos—once we were done fighting and since it was going to join the Imperium we had the joyful perspective of staying in orbit for months, while the situation calmed down, as we had to keep the more blood-thirsty charges of our Lord away from the planet.

They wanted a lot of things. Some of them wanted to glass the whole place. Others wanted to be involved in ruling it. I don't think our Lord expected them to actually want to rule and that they wouldn't listen when he told them no.

_It did not escape my attention that the Captain did not mention anything about destroying __the entire planet and, naturally, I asked._

Our Lord didn't say anything except, "It's not to be done." I've never learned what he thought of just wiping out all life on the whole planet. I think the Emperor had dissuaded him out of it, though I cannot say how. We had to start bringing order there again.

This phase of compliance is usually the most tedious part of bringing the world to compliance. You're done with fighting; mostly at least. Sometimes, there are some nests of resistance left. This is the point when the Governor is chosen, if it's necessary and then we wait until it appears that everything is in order.

_The Captain __sneers in distaste._

This really isn't a task for Astartes. We're there to fight and yet… Sometimes I feel like the only sane person around. You would not believe what some otherwise reasonable people can suggest. There was this one time… But that's a different story.

I think I felt like this back then. Our Primarch had no idea about running an Expedition Fleet and-

_He pauses and shakes his head._

I don't blame or condemn any of my brothers. I blame my shitty luck while drawing lots. The Emperor had other duties calling him—he stayed as long as possible with our Lord, but once we entered the later stage of bringing that world to compliance, he had to leave, while we had to stay. Somebody had to… point him in the right direction and show him certain mechanisms of running an Expedition Fleet. I ended up with the job, until our Lord would join one of his more experienced brothers.

And for months, we just sat there, wrapping up all loose ends and waiting for another fleet to rendezvous with us.

_I chose to end the chapter here, as next the Captain has described his efforts in educating Lord Angron. It is a most interesting narrative and I think it deserve a separate chapter._


	4. Less Perfect II

Mortarion found himself confused. On the one hand, Fulgrim appeared to be obnoxiously full of himself. He practically leapt at the occasion to talk about himself and his Legion, and how amazing they were, and how he wanted to be just like daddy. Well, the last part wasn't exactly stated like this and, despite being arrogant, was not obnoxious at all. In fact, it was honestly something he found very likeable. On the other hand, Fulgrim had barely mentioned his childhood or the time shortly after he had been found.

Odd. Still, it would be intrusive to inquire. He would wait until Fulgrim decided he wanted to tell him about it. After all, he did not expect to learn everything about his… mentor, he supposed, on the first day. Some things were simply too private to share.

"How about you, brother?" Fulgrim asked, looking at Mortarion encouragingly. "Perhaps you'd wish to share some tales of your exploits with me?"

Mortarion considered the request for a moment. It seemed fair enough.

"I grew up on Barbarus," he started, "where the Warlords ruled. They dwelt high in the mountains, where none other could breathe…"

He had never been good with long tales and merely listening to Fulgrim had told him his brother would be disappointed to hear his story in the way he would usually tell it. Instead of doing so, he borrowed the words of another, slightly paraphrasing it, replacing "he" with "I". He had a good memory, after all, and could repeat the tale word by word. Not out of vanity, but simply to honour the person who had created it.

Fulgrim listened attentively. For all his egotism, he did appear genuinely interested in what Mortarion was telling. He was leaning slightly forward, making small noises of surprise or affirmation at the appropriate moments and his gaze never wandered away from Mortarion. In its own way, it was quite gratifying.

He did not expect what came after he had finished, though. Fulgrim, it seemed, was a lot more emotional than Mortarion and far more open about displaying what he was feeling at any given moment. Just as the Primarch of the Dusk Raiders recited the final words, he found himself being embraced again.

He was glad about it; after all, he had probably upset Fulgrim last time and now he could fix that. To tell the truth he was pleasantly surprised and touched to find that Fulgrim did not seem deterred by his initial reaction at all. For all intents and purposes, he could have decided to keep away from Mortarion for good. Instead, he seemed to be ready to try again and welcome him. Somewhat awkwardly, he slid his left arm around his brother. His wounds were almost healed by now, but some movements still left him feeling uncomfortable.

Then Fulgrim pulled away, looking quite amused. "Those were not the patterns of speech you have used so far?"

Not expecting Fulgrim to notice had apparently been a mistake, though in his previous experience others generally did not pay attention to changes in syntax. It would still not do if he left it unexplained, simply because Fulgrim might jump to the wrong conclusions again.

"I'd have omitted half of it, if I hadn't used what somebody else created," he replied, shrugging only with his left shoulder.

Fulgrim laughed, "I could have asked questions, couldn't I?"

That was technically true and Mortarion wondered why he hadn't thought of it. Perhaps, he simply did not like telling his own story in his own words. Some things were just too private to share at the first meeting. He smiled a pale half-smile in response, as an admission of his mistake.

"I have another question," Fulgrim said, peering at him, his brow now creasing in a frown. "Is there something wrong with your shoulder?"

Mortarion looked at it—it didn't hurt anymore, though moving it remained uncomfortable. Almost unconsciously he balled his hands into fists. The pain might have dulled by now, but there would be a scar there to join all the others. It wouldn't be the only new one either, but then he was quite certain it didn't really matter in the long run. Warriors were scarred.

"It's just a chemical burn," he said quietly.

Silently, Fulgrim touched one of the many scars on Mortarion's cheek, the frown not leaving his features. He seemed to be examining the texture and the shade, while Mortarion tried not to concentrate too much on how… odd the sensation was. He didn't really feel the touch on his skin, just the barest hint of pressure in the muscles.

"Are they all chemical in origin?" Fulgrim asked, as he withdrew his hand.

The only thing that had stopped Mortarion from slapping the prying hand away was just how worried Fulgrim seemed. It… It puzzled him to some degree that this man, whom he barely knew and who appeared so fundamentally different, appeared to treat him like a true sibling moments after they had met first.

"Yes," he replied, taking a small step back. "Don't touch them again—I don't like that."

For a moment, Fulgrim looked both puzzled and hurt. Then, before Mortarion could add anything, he exhaled slowly, his expression even again. "I apologize. I have been told I tend to be too… affectionate."

For a moment, Mortarion stared at Fulgrim, fighting the urge to at the same time hide his face in his hands in exasperation and laugh.

* * *

Fulgrim found himself very much unhappy with his own thoughts as he accompanied Mortarion to see him address the highest ranking Captains of the Dusk Raiders. He had never been fond of thinking back to his childhood on Chemos, but now he found himself comparing his own fate and what he had found out of Mortarion's.

The differences were there and yet, he could not help but wonder. What would he do, if he were to fight in an environment that even his constitution could not handle? How long would it take to succumb to the poisonous mists of Barbarus? It was not easy to harm a Primarch, but the living proof that it was possible was walking beside him, still covered in angry red scars, ones that would always be there to remind them all they were not indestructible.

Suddenly, he realized Mortarion would never have it easy. If he was so unnerved by the scars, how would his other brother's react? Would any of them appreciate learning they could be harmed? He doubted that.

Mighty Russ would not take well to uncertainty. He could hear the Wolf King of Fenris now, the rough growl of his voice and the hostility in it. What would Ferrus say?

Perhaps this was why Father had chosen him to tutor Mortarion? While he could not relate all that well to his brother, he certainly could try to make sure at least some other Primarchs did not focus on the first impression and try to minimize the distance that would surely be caused by it.

He would have dwelt on all the problems in front of him now, had Mortarion not chosen to this moment to address him. They were still on their way to the docking bay, passing through rows of exquisite statues and marvelous paintings, though so far Mortarion did not appear to show any interest in them. Now, all of a sudden, his brother indicated one of them and said, in an absolutely serious voice, "That one isn't too bad."

Fulgrim stared at him for a moment, until he finally caught the slight way the corners of Mortarion's lips had curled up and he found himself grinning, if only because his brother's intention was to cheer him up. And it had worked.

"You can have it," he said impulsively. "It's a gift."


	5. One

His world had been smell and touch for ages, limited to one room and the sounds of machinery that fed him, kept him alive and trapped at the same time. He vaguely remembered the world being different, being able to see things, to run, to grab, to manipulate. The memories were distant and blurry, half forgotten and mostly replaced by the darkness and the smell of antiseptics. Pain was a constant too, throbbing in his chest, his abdomen, burning inside his veins or slithering through his nerves.

At first he had screamed, alternatively cursing and then begging for them to stop, but he grew hoarse and there was no reply. Slowly, he gave in and simply endured what came: the constant operations, the nurses? tending to him and the immutable pain.

Nothing suggested that this day would be any different. He felt the warmth on his face, indicating that one of his caretakers had drawn back the curtains and that it would be morning. Sometimes he tried to ask what was going on outside or guess, but he hardly ever got any solid answers. Mostly, he remained silent, wishing he could break free, wishing that the pain would stop.

The caretaker continued the daily rituals, unceremoniously prying away the blanket covering his frame and inspecting him with uncaring hands. Silently, he endured. Suddenly, the hands froze and pulled away, a startled yelp breaking the silence.

Somebody else was in the room. A presence overwhelmed everything, the sound of steps filling his ears. A large hand—as large as his own used to be—touched his forehead, brushing away his hair from his empty eye sockets.

"Who-" he started to ask, his voice hoarse with disuse, but the other interrupted him.

"Shh, my son. Sleep for now."

His world, as limited as it was, faded. The pain, the discomfort, all disappeared as the words echoed in his mind.

* * *

**AN: **And on this positive note, we will be returning to Kharn and his interview.


	6. Hound of War III

The first thing I had to teach to Lord Angron was how to read. I know it might seem amazing that a Primarch can be illiterate, but would you really expect people to teach gladiators - whose sole duty is to die for their entertainment - how to read? Fortunately, primarchs learn stunningly fast: once he knew the rules it was only a matter of time until we could move on to the more complex problems.

_Naturally, I didn't let Captain Kharn escape with such a short summary._

I have no idea why you think this is interesting, but fine. First of all, I don't think I was made to be a good teacher. I've spent a day trying to figure out how to approach the problem; I couldn't just grab somebody and tell them to teach our Primarch, could I?

_At this point, I inquired why this would present such a problem._

Can you imagine teaching him?

_To be completely honest, my brain nearly broke as I attempted to imagine such a task. I might have not said a word, but my expression spoke for itself, it seems._

My point exactly. It would just take too long: I've managed to get used to the idea, but whatever person I'd catch would need to accept this and stop boggling, all the while he was waiting. I think you agree that making our Primarch impatient is not the best idea.

So, I spent a vexatious day in the library, searching for simple books that were not infantile. I suppose it might have been easier on a ship belonging to a Legion that does not recruit from a civilized world and therefore has more experience with bridging cultural gaps. Still, once I finally got to teaching…

Well, let's start at the beginning. Alphabet. At this point, he could recognize his own name and a few other words, but in the alphabet their planet used. Still, that wouldn't do. Did you ever wonder why we have one sign per sound in High Gothic and Low Gothic? I had certainly never thought about that. And he asked me about that—and why not use one sign per word.

My first answer was, "It's easier to remember."

Naturally, that did not satisfy him. His home planet used a symbolic alphabet and while he only recognized a few signs, he still pointed out this made no sense. People did learn all those signs and used them.

"Give me a better answer," he demanded.

I said, "Because it's easier to write compound words, my Lord."

I'm surprised I managed to come up with something that coherent. I hadn't expected such a question at all. In fact, I had never thought about it myself. After all, what would I need such knowledge for? I need only to be able to write a comprehensible report, not discuss linguistics. Really, I'm the last person that should explain such things to anybody.

_Unlike Horus, who expected his Marines to learn matters not related to war, Angron never endorsed such interests.__ Admittedly, the War Hounds as far as I can tell are not scholarly inclined by nature, so there is no conflict over this matter. Nevertheless, here we can observe a reason why such studies can prove beneficial to a Space Marine._

"Adding… how is adding many signs easier than adding one?" he asked me with the kind of expression that suggests I had said something moronic.

And I really felt like an idiot, as I tried to explain what I meant. Have you ever tried to explain building adjectives—well, I suppose you're better when it comes to grammar rules, so I suppose you wouldn't have sounded like you have no idea what you're talking about. I only managed to say something about adding endings to adjectives and how it's easier when you've just got to learn you need to add two letters instead of learning a whole new sign...

Imagine my joy a week later when Lord Angron found a book about how symbolic alphabets work. I had to read it too and naturally I found out I was completely wrong.

_The Captain shakes his head._

I actually still remember most of it and I have no idea why I'd need it. But this is unimportant. We had far more pressing concerns than alphabets. There was a whole world that needed to be brought into our fold.

Though, when I say we, I don't really mean my Legion. The highest ranking captains are involved in such decisions, true, but it's not really something most of my Brothers would identify with. Ask any of them and they will tell you a variety of things: that it's not a task for a warrior or that it's boring. Still, it's something that has to be done and I should be getting back to the topic.

Usually, the planetary governor was chosen from the higher echelons of the Imperial Army and it was a promotion not many were happy about. In theory, it might appear glorious, but it usually meant being denied the glory of further victories and instead having to deal with the down-to-earth petty problems of administration (_and to never, ever go home and see your family...)_ Colonel Dymetari, or rather Governor Dymetari, was as overjoyed as you can imagine.

Although I have to give the man his due: he might not have been enthusiastic about his situation, but he did approach his duties seriously and with dedication. I had to introduce him to Angron just a day after the Emperor left.

Dymetari arrived on time and in dress uniform. Lord Angron had yet to grasp that a kilt is not the right outfit for every occasion. I suppose that since he thought it is, it should be so. It's not like it really matters what one is wearing as long as it's practical and clean. It's such a bother. Although, I might be trivializing a more serious issue: there was the matter of High Riders, too. I suppose he didn't like appearing like them and they liked their outfits decorative or being reminded of their existence, for the matter. I know he tended to get curt with Fulgrim, because of that.

So, Dymetari walked in and found himself faced by Lord Angron, who was not very impressed by the dress uniform. Fortunately, Dymetari was pretty to the point when listing the problems he was facing. It was simply utter chaos: there was virtually no administrative infrastructure to pick up and he had to oversee building it anew. There were pockets of resistance still: not very big, not very powerful, but annoying.

"Why didn't we kill them all?" Angron demanded.

Dymetari flinched, somewhat surprised by the demand. I suppose that's not that odd—most primarchs have been rather attached to their home planets. Well, there was Trujillo, but that was an extreme case, though I don't know the details.

_I was not familiar with the name and no doubt most of you aren't as well. Naturally, I inquired._

That was the home planet of the Primarch of the XIth Legion. I've only heard rumors—but it is said that he refuses to make any comment about it. But we'll get to him in due time. For now, let's focus on Dymetari and his conversation with Angron.

"It would be a waste of resources to conduct such an operation," Dymerari explained. Hastily, he added, when he saw that our Primarch was not satisfied with this answer. "What I meant to say is that those rebels are insignificant. The ressources that would be required to muster a planet-wide sweep as opposed to biding our time and conducting small-scale operations would be disproportional to the losses we take currently and the actual impact of destroying them."

That did not seem to appeal to Angron at all. "They deserve to die," he growled.

"It's not really organized resistance," I said. "Most of those insurgents are just disgruntled people. As far as we know the remaining planetary nobility is hiding somewhere, too afraid to oppose us. The rebels are mostly just people who are afraid of change. We always get them and there's usually more of them when the situation is as severe as here."

Angron snorted. "So we're going to always do half-assed jobs?"

"We're not there to eradicate all resistance," I said. "We're just there to make sure only madmen and those completely desperate attempt it. Our place is a battlefield, not a skirmish. Those can be dealt with by the planetary defense."

"So we just leave it like that?" he asked. I could tell he was not at all pleased.

"You cannot remain here for such a long time, my Lord," Dymetari said.

"We can simply do it faster," Angron replied.

"That's not really feasible," I said. "That would just consume more resources than is reasonable."

At this point our conversation turned to technicalities with which I won't bore you. Suffice to say, we were forced to give Lord Angron a more exhaustive explanation than I have expected.

_I tried to get the Captain to continue, but the best I've got out of him was a simple summary of what had been said. _

We went into how the financial side of the Great Crusade had worked back then. Not that either me or Dymetari could give a proper explanation, and we ended up fumbling through the more complex questions. Dymetari was at least getting paid, so he had some idea about how a budget works. I doubt any Space Marine even knows how bloody accounting is done. Nevertheless, we managed to at least present the basics, before he told us to just shut up and that he did not care about money.

He still wanted us to just get on with pacifying the planet, despite the costs and "all the shit about needing time" as he put it.

To be honest, I don't think anybody expected me or any of the other officers to explain such things. It simply didn't occur to me that we could have asked our own clerks to do that at that point. To be honest, I hardly noticed them. They were there, doing things like cataloging, writing miles of reports and creating more forms then any sane person needs. Perhaps it's for the better I forgot about them. As much as it would have made my life easier, I don't think it would be worth it ending theirs.

_At this point I was not ce__rtain if he was exaggerating so I asked._

I don't know. He might have killed them, if they really got on his nerves. They might have reminded him of the High Riders or they could have said something he would not have liked.

_As you might imagine I was quite put off by this statement. Aren't primarchs supposed to be paragons of morality and examples for us all?_

Gulliman, Dorn, maybe, but Angron is a warrior. He's there to fight not to deal with… Well, fine, he does with the Administratum now, but back then he was more of a gladiator then a general. He's also always been the one to act first, think second and had been conditioned for violence. All in all, not a good state to face accountants.

* * *

**AN**

Well, that took longer than expected. I blame Mass Effect 2.

Next chapter, back to Mortarion and Fulgrim.


	7. One II

He wasn't certain what had woken him up. For a moment, he felt disoriented. Something was subtly wrong, not quite the way it used to be. It took him a moment to realize that he was no longer in pain. The moment was possibly the most beautiful in his life. He could breathe without the constant feeling that his lungs were filled with molten lead. The sensations of thousands of poisoned needles in his skin and underneath had faded too.

"You're awake."

It was the same voice that commanded him to sleep earlier. He turned his head in the direction from which the sound was coming, uncertain on how to react. It had been so long since anybody had addressed him. What was he supposed to do?

"I will give you a choice, my son."

He listened in silence, shocked to release how much these words frightened him. A choice? What choices could a being like him have?

"I can give you sight."

Sight? How had it felt to be able to see? He could barely remember the time when the world had not been dark. Did he miss whatever those blurry and half-forgotten glimpses had been?

"I can make you walk again."

That made something in him stir. Walking would mean he wouldn't be trapped in one place anymore. He would finally be free.

"I can just let you live like that."

He felt his heart freeze—he did not want that, more than anything. To be like this, confined to one place, dependant on others, was far worse than any other fate he could imagine.

"Or?" he asked, uncertain—so far there didn't seem to be a choice. After all, would he really frown upon being released from his own helplessness?

"Or I can let you fade away."

For the first time, the voice lost some of its might. Was he mishearing or was there a hint of weariness in the last words? Though… what kind of a choice was this? There was something he had not been told of. Something was missing, some essential piece of the puzzle.

"You're hiding something," he whispered, noticing how oddly their voices contrasted. His was a hoarse croak, sounds flowing together into near unintelligibility. The other sounded clear and mellifluous, every sound just right.

There was a moment of silence and his unease grew, but then the voice spoke again.

"There will be a price," he said. "I can give you back what was taken away from you, but first, you will suffer more. We will need to rebuild you, operate on you repeatedly. Then you will lead my armies and fight for me. You will conquer the stars."

* * *

"My name is Horus."

The new voice sounded like the one who had offered to heal him, but not entirely. There were some notes missing. Still, there were enough similarities for him to wonder if the first voice would call Horus "my son" too.

"And you are?"

He let out a shaky breath. What was his name? It had been so long since anybody used it. The last time had been…

_Screaming. Pain._

He didn't have the time to remember. Hands, large warm hands pressed against his shoulders and somebody shook him. He couldn't grasp at them and hold onto the other for comfort, he couldn't stop him from pulling away.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to remind you of anything unpleasant," Horus said, concern in his voice clearly audible. "You could change your name."

The solution was simple and yet very tempting. A new name, a new start, unconnected to what had been… Maybe he could just leave the past behind, forget it completely?

"I'd like that," he said, his lips twitching into a pale smile.

He had not believed he still knew how and yet here he was dragging the dim memory out of his mind and smiling at a man whom he just met.

"So, is there any name that you like?" Horus asked, his voice both concerned and encouraging.

He hesitated, searching for anything that sounded right. It did not prove easy. How many names did he know? He recalled some, but did he really want to call himself something his jailors and minders had used? It would be just creating another tie with his past and he wanted to reject them completely. What use there would be to have a name that would force him to recall being a _thing_ have?

Yet, he knew no other names.

"No," he whispered. "There is no such name."

First, there was no answer. He only heard the bed creak, which indicated Horus sat down next to him and felt a hand brush away his hair from his forehead. The touch was reminiscent of what he had felt when the first voice had come to him and took him away. The way Horus's hand moved followed almost the same pattern.

"Let me help you then, brother," Horus said his voice warm and reassuring. "Together we will find something fitting."

* * *

**AN**

Unfortunately, Mortarion and Fulgrim refused to cooperate and I have to rewrite Less Perfect III. In the meantime, have some more of the Unknown Primarch.**  
**


	8. Less Perfect III

The thing was wrong. It looked human-like, but the similarities only made it appear more alien. Its body reminded Sergeant Mal of a clay sculpture that had been pulled up before being baked. It turned its face towards him, thin lips spread in a mockery of a smile.

It couldn't see him. It had no eyes.

"Join us," it said, reaching out towards Mal. Its hand was thin with fingers like spider-legs.

Mal shot at it almost without thinking and it fell, crumpling like a puppet with cut strings. Mal took a step back, not falling into the trap of relaxing when the obvious threat was down. He kept looking around, until he felt thin dry fingers wrap around his throat and blunt nails digging into his flesh.

* * *

The plea for help had come suddenly, perhaps too early. Barbarus was still in the process of transforming into an Imperial world, but the need for help had been urgent and Mortarion needed to start gaining experience soon. It was simply too good an opportunity to miss and so the XIV Primarch had to decide on a proxy much sooner than expected.

"You're not going to accept a governor for civilian matters?" Fulgrim asked, looking curiously with his brother. "Wouldn't it make matters much easier than leaving many small councils that have to reach a consensus about any larger decisions?"

"No need to change that," Mortarion said. "It works."

Fulgrim shook his head. "It worked, but you cannot be certain it will now. They will be forced to make decisions they did not have to face before, decisions that will influence the entire planet and not just a small society. There is also the fact that you were there. If something went wrong, you could step in. Now that you will be gone, are you certain it still is viable?"

Mortarion seemed to turn it over in his mind, eyes turned downwards to the floor. "We should wait," he finally said. "If we need to change, we will, but not because it _might_ work. It might not, for all I know."

Fulgrim was not entirely satisfied with the answer. While he was starting to understand Mortarion's motives, he did not like this conservative approach at all. True, change for the sake of change was not something to be strived for, but that was not what he had been advocating. He was merely acting upon his experience.

Perhaps, if one wanted to keep the population of a planet feral, not instating a proper government was a better idea, but he had found such practices quite distasteful, be it in the Khan or the Wolf King. Their worlds produced warriors with a specific skill set and vicious killers, respectively, but was this really all one had to expect from Marines? He could not believe Father wanted his creations to be so limited by their environment.

Were they not supposed to bring enlightenment? Were they not the heralds of a golden age of humanity? They had to make things change for the better. And yet, some of his brothers refused.

"It worked on many other worlds," he replied, but suddenly, he realized he was approaching it from the wrong angle. It was not logic that had dictated Mortarion's decision. As unexpected as it was, it had been attachment. Emotions. "You like your world the way it is, don't you?"

"Of course," Mortarion replied, his brow creasing in a frown. "You sound surprised."

Did he? Most of his brothers did like their homeplanets, so obviously this was nothing to be surprised about at all. And yet… Barbarus had a poisonous atmosphere and had not long ago been infested by those "warlords", whatever they were. He somehow couldn't imagine not wanting to make it better.

"Chemos had been very different from what it is now," he said. "Barbarus could change. Your people could have easier, more comfortable lives."

Mortarion shook his head. "Easier and more comfortable isn't better. They need to be strong."

Fulgrim was not satisfied with the answer. It rubbed him the wrong way. The hidden implication that trying to make life more comfortable, less of a struggle was somehow bad, seemed like mocking all that he had strived for. He calmed himself with effort, reminding himself that Mortarion _did not know._

Perhaps his brother was making the wrong assumptions because his mentor failed. It was his weakness that stopped him from explaining to Mortarion how Chemos had been, when it could help his brother better his own planet.

"Let me tell you of Chemos, brother," he said, turning to look out through the window.

* * *

_Hands in the dark. No eyes. No eyes, but they see. They find us everywhere. _

It was not the whole recording, but it was the part that was most coherent. The rest was punctuated by static and sobbing, painting an unpleasant picture of what awaited them.

Vespasian frowned, as he reconsidered his last thought. That was not true: they knew that the threat had no eyes and hands, and moved well in the dark. It had some way of locating the Imperial forces. It was not much to base their strategy on, but it was a start.

He regarded his Dusk Raider counterpart thoughtfully. He noted the paleness which bordered on unhealthy parlor and the stubborn set of mouth. They would have to cooperate in the future. Perhaps, this future was starting now.

"Tell me, brother, what do you think?" he asked.

"We should get somebody to make a holo out of it once we're done," Captain Barett Ashdon said dryly.

Vespasian stared at the other Marine, noting that his counterpart was smirking wryly. It seemed he was being subtly made fun of?

"I expected a less flippant answer," he said, quirking his eyebrow.

"I'm sure you were, brother," Captain Ashdon responded. "I shall bow to your expectations and behave in suitably dull and humorless fashion, so that you can feel properly superior."

Vespasian did not rise to the bait. He did not get to his position by indulging his emotions and… A beatific smile spread over his features.

"I must introduce you to Lord Commander Eidolon," he said a germ of an idea taking root in his mind. "I'm sure you will get along splendidly."

* * *

"We know practically nothing," Mortarion observed, as he watched the holographic display of the Yogso system. Seven planets moved on roughly elliptical orbits in their celestial dance, framing the golden star. The fourth and third planets were habitable, with atmospheres that were breathable to men. Both had been colonized by humanity in the Age of Dark Technology.

The plea for help came from the fourth.

"That is not true," Fulgrim disagreed, putting away a dataslate and letting it wobble precariously over the edge of the display. "However, we do not know nearly enough."

He paused, rubbing his chin. "We will need to move carefully. Comb through every cranny and make sure no enemy survives."

"Constant vigilance?" Mortarion added.

"That has been puzzling me," Fulgrim said. "Those creature must have somehow bypassed not just the sentries, but the automated security systems. If we knew how they do it, this would be much easier."

"He didn't say that," the Primarch of the Dusk Raiders replied. It seemed to him that Fulgrim was guessing too much there. After all, there was no mention—No, he was being to literal. _They find us everywhere._ The implication was that those beings appeared where they shouldn't be. "How would you bypass them, if you relied either on hearing or the sense of smell?"

Fulgrim gave him a wry smile. "If it were that easy… They could rely on the Warp as well."

Mortarion's frown deepened. "We will have to kill them anyway," he said coldly. "If they're warpspawn we will have to be more thorough."


	9. Hound of War IV

I think everything would have been easier, had we been able to involve the Lord Commander in the process. Bloody old moron.

_I pointed out that at this point that all my prior information had indicated that the head officer of the Imperial Army assigned to Angron's fleet was a woman and it had been often remarked she got on surprisingly well with him._

I'm not talking about Lady Commander Briggs. She was promoted to her current rank about… fifty years after Angron was discovered? The previous Lord Commander wasn't really that bad, just far too set in his ways. His disagreement with Angron was about the ex-gladiators.

I'd told you there'd been trouble with them, didn't I?

The Lord Commander thought they were being treated too leniently. He actually told Angron that he was taking their side far too often. That went over as well you might have expected. The Lord Commander only survived due to sheer dumb luck.

I suppose you want know what I mean by that?

He was introduced our Primarch when the Emperor was still overseeing the operations and when he had left, he was to be involved in explaining how the Crusade works. At first it had been going well, until the matter of discipline had risen. It was shortly after several soldiers were nearly killed by some of the former gladiators in a brawl. Or maybe they were killed? It's been quite a while.

The Lord Commander brought this to Angron's attention and demanded the people in question be executed as an example. Next thing we know, the table was flying and the Lord Commander was on the floor. To this day, I have no idea how he managed to trip at the most fortunate moment, but he did. Since he was partially hidden, he managed to get out before Angron got to him.

Which left me with a very angry primarch to whom I had to explain why he shouldn't do what he wants. It's not like there was any way to stop him. Not really. If he wanted to, he could have killed me and probably half of the ship, while he was at it. The problem we were facing was that… the High Riders had taught him how to fight and kill, but no restraint.

Will you stop giving me that look?

_I was perhaps incredulous, since the First Captain is remarkably unaugmented for someone who apparently dealt with a Primarch who lacks restrain__t. Naturally, the Captain was not pleased with being eyed like that._

Maybe we'll take a break and I tell you how I got each and every scar?

_For the full list of scars, please refer to Appendix 3. Incidentally, you will find there the information on how to best remove __the appendix of an Eldar. It took us a while to get back on topic, though I must admit that I must have started getting used to hearing gory tales at this point. However, we did finally return to why the War Hounds took so long to move onto conquest again._

_True enough, only three or four were the result of Primarch Angron's lack of restraint and one left by a display of fondness._

Nevertheless, as I was saying, the problem wasn't just that the previous Lord Commander had angered our Primarch. It was bigger than that: Angron was not prepared for this situation. We did not share the comfort of the Imperial Fists or the Ultramarines, who had a commander who was capable of leading a Crusade from the start.

That is why I had to explain that what the Lord Commander was advocating was not favouritism. It went about as well as you might have expected.

"He wants me to sanction killing my people!" Angron snapped.

"No, my Lord," I said. "He wants you-"

I'm really glad I'm a Space Marine. That's why I still have a head.

"-to punish those guilty of killing his people."

"Explain," he growled at me.

"It's… we're talking about soldiers my Lord," I said. "Unaugmented soldiers. They're trained to be aggressive and one needs to maintain strict discipline, so that they remain under control. Part of it is showing them that nobody is above punishment. At least in theory."

"Continue," he urged me.

"If discipline is not maintained they might start to riot or fight among each other," I replied. "We generally prefer to avoid it. It tends to damage a lot of things, them included."

Our Primarch gave me a blank look and asked, "So, he wants me to sentence my brothers and sisters, so that his soldiers don't start fighting amongst each other and breaking things?"

"Because it's the thing that works," I answered.

I don't think he was satisfied with the answer and I was about to start explaining in more detail, why it works. I was going to tell him about unstable environment and how it creates the need for stability-

Yes, I actually do know those things. You don't get to the rank of Captain by bashing your head against ork skulls.

Well, not only by bashing, anyway.

As I was saying, I was about to explain, when he simply cut me off and told me I was to go and keep the Lord Commander away.

"If I'm to be your general, I should start making my own decisions," he said.

There wasn't much for me to do, but wait and wonder what he would decide. I certainly didn't expect what would come. He simply sent the guilty back to the planet.

_I was rather surprised by such a mild punishment, naturally._

No. It wasn't mild—it just looks like that because you're used to thinking death is the worst thing that can happen to them. I'm not sure what the gladiators have thought, but if I'd be them and be sent back to that planet…

They couldn't control themselves, and as unwilling as our Lord had been to enforce discipline, he did see they couldn't be left to their own devices. They would disrupt too much. So he left them somewhere where they couldn't disrupt the orderly functioning of society.

It caused quite a panic with the clerks. I think they never got over it, either—even now their reports are actually written in human language and not in that… cipher-like gibberish they normally use. I think some of our Lord's brothers are still trying to figure out why. I'm not even certain why they panicked in the first place.

Be as it may, it seemed to have worked. The other ex-gladiators started making an effort at controlling themselves, so we had less opportunities for exercises in military discipline.

The next week was rather uneventful. Then the 78th Expeditionary Fleet appeared at the edge of the system.

Three companies of the XIth Legion had been scheduled to join with our fleet: the First, the Second and the Ninth. That was not all, however. The Emperor, in his wisdom, had decreed that the Primarch of the Celestial Griffons was to join us and help Angron acclimatize to his new role.

_While it is common knowledge, I'm quite certain that a lot of our honoured readers will nevertheless find this choice puzzling. I admit that I found the logic behind it quite unfathomable to my mortal mind. __The Celestial Griffons specialize in precision strikes, whereas the World Eaters prefer close combat. Certainly, a Legion specializing in similar wars, like the Blood Angels or the Space Wolves, would appear to be a more intuitive choice._

_Nevertheless, it was Primarch Janos who was to advise Angron on how to lead a legion._

* * *

**AN**

The Unknown Primarch from One did get better between his and Angron's discovery. The question is, does his life still suck?


	10. One III

The fact that there was pain was nothing new. However, the fact that it was not constant, was. People would ask him if he was in pain and actually give him painkillers if he was. It wasn't the only novelty. Now there were things that distracted him from his pain. He could listen to recordings of his choosing, if he so wanted. True, for now it was mostly the fact that he could choose on his own that made it enjoyable—even if he asked the nearest person for an opinion most of the time, anyway.

And there was another thing he was not used to. He would ask and get a response. And so he asked about all the things he had never had a chance to ask about.

"I'm attached to machines—what do they do?"

The question seemed to catch the person that had been standing in front one of the machines (it made a slight whirring noise most of the time) off guard, judging how long they remained silent and the slight tremor in his voice as he answered, "I-I'm not an Adept, my Lord. I don't know."

He was puzzled. The voice had not sounded like one that should be uncertain. It was deep and rumbling, sounding like it came from some massive pipe and not a human chest.

"I'm not your lord," he said, wondering if the man—it was a man, with that deep rumbling voice, wasn't it? It sounded almost inhuman—had perhaps confused rooms. And what was a lord, anyway?

That was followed by the sound of heavy feet shifting, as if uncertain.

"Who is an Adept?" he asked, noting that the most-likely-man was not leaving.

"I'll—I'll get one," the other person replied hastily. That was followed by a click, a quiet buzzing and a hushed conversation. He guessed the other person must have had some sort of portable communications device on him.

Several minutes later, he heard clicking, like metal hitting the floor repeatedly and an odd, synthetic voice greeted him. It didn't sound human: it lacked emotion and sounded oddly flat, like a machine. It made his skin crawl. Did he really want to ask that creature questions?

The other person solved this problem for him, saying, "My—The Primarch wants to know what the machines he is attached to do."

He had no idea why this person was so insistent on using those titles when referring to him, but kept silent, allowing the Adept to speak. The odd machine-like drone, despite its flat modulation, carried a grudging note, as the Adept described the machines in the most basic terms.

At least, he assumed they were basic terms. He still had to ask for clarifications at points—he had no prior knowledge of such things, after all. Nevertheless, it all seemed fairly straightforward, once he considered it and so he started asking more complicated questions. He even managed to ignore the grating qualities of the Adept's voice, until he forgot that he had been told not to try turning too much. The sharp stab of pain ended the conversation quite effectively.

* * *

He woke up to the sound of somebody pulling a chair closer. It wasn't particularly loud, but he had noticed long ago that he could hear things he most likely shouldn't have heard. Most of the time, they had been things he also would prefer to not have heard.

"You're awake?" Horus asked.

"Yes," he replied, turning his head towards the sound.

"I hope you're feeling better?" Horus continued.

He considered it, before nodding, quite surprised to realize that he was feeling better. How come he hadn't noticed that?

"I believe I promised to find a name for you," Horus said. "I have a few ideas—I hope you will like at least one of them."

"I can't decide until I heard them, can I?" he answered.

"And I thought you were going to guess," Horus said, chuckling. He wasn't certain why—he was quite sure him trying to guess would be rather pathetic and not amusing. After all, he wouldn't know any names Horus might suggest. The chuckling stopped fairly abruptly and Horus added, sounding… embarrassed? "It was meant to be a joke."

"I don't think I have a sense of humour," he managed uncertainly. He heard a soft sigh, and felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

"It was my mistake, not yours," Horus said, sounding subdued for a moment. His voice quickly regained its strong edge though, as he continued. "But I shouldn't be stalling so long. There's one important thing I want to tell you first: I want you to give meaning to your name. You will define it, not be defined by it. Your name will speak only of potential."

"You expect too much from me," he said, shaking his head slowly.

The hand on his shoulder moved slightly, squeezing it—that surprised him, but mostly because the touch was still far from unpleasant. It felt oddly reassuring. "You know so little about who you are and what you can be, brother. Don't draw conclusions about your potential just yet."

Horus sat in silence for a moment, before saying, "Do you like Lycus?"

"One of the… nurses was named Lycus," he replied, wincing. Horus didn't answer and he suddenly realized he wanted to see the other—the silence was oddly oppressive. Was his brother angry? Upset? He couldn't guess what Horus was thinking. He could only guess, and so he added hastily, "Ah. I'm sorry. You couldn't have known this."

The silence went on even longer, but Horus's hand remained on his shoulder, the weight quite reassuring in itself. "How about Tycho?"

"I don't know," he said, uncertainly. "How would I know a name works?"

"You don't," Horus replied. "Usually, it's just a name your parents chose for you—you think it works, because you've always been carrying it."

"So why aren't you choosing for me? It sounds easier," he said, confused.

"You're not a child. You should make your own choices."

He remained silent for a while, considering the answer. It seemed reasonable enough on the surface, but once he thought about it, he wasn't so certain. "I can't decide blindly, not knowing anything, whether it will fit or not. Whether there are implications to it I might not like."

"Sometimes, you won't have all the data you want," Horus said softly. "There are times when you have to make a choice, not knowing if it's the right one. You can only trust your intuition then."

"Can't I simply-" he started to say, but Horus interrupted.

"Sometimes any choice is better than none."

They remained silent for a while, before he chuckled softly, clearly surprising Horus. He surprised himself too—it seemed he actually did have a sense of humour.

"That's not very funny," Horus said, sounding somewhat offended.

"No, no," he said hastily. "That's not it—it's… we're choosing a name, not deciding the fate of another person.. I can choose any old name as long as I like it."

Horus still seemed quite surprised, when he said, "You certainly can do that."

He felt a little uncertain, wondering whether he had really offended Horus with his amusement, but—it all boiled down to that, didn't it? He could choose any name he wanted. After a moment, Horus started suggesting more names. Sometimes, he would explain the meaning—sometimes he listed people who had borne that name. But nothing felt right.

"I think we're still being too conservative," Horus mused. "I should have thought of this first. You need a name that could stand for anybody, every person imaginable. Yes, I think here is a name that sounds like you," Horus said. His voice suddenly drowned out the hum of the medical equipment. "Janos. It's from one of the ancient Terran languages."

"And why is it so fitting?" he asked, feeling his mouth quirk into a smile.

"It's the name of the Everyman," Horus replied. "You can't say that it will carry some pre-conceived notions."

He considered the answer in silence, trying out the name in his mind. The he nodded.

"I like this name," said Janos.

* * *

**AN**: Since this was a bit on the obscure side: Janos is the Hungarian version of John.


	11. Hound of War V

Two primarchs in one place. Words fail me to describe the experience. I was awed. I was shocked. I was over-whelmed. I think I must have spaced out for a while, because once I was done chasing after my thoughts, Lord Angron and Janos were already having a conversation.

"Are you compensating for something?" our Primarch asked. It was meant to be a joke—I could tell it from his tone, but my brain only supplied me with blank confusion as to what it might have been referring to. Angron was looking at the Unforgiven—that oversized lascannon of his-

_At this point I had to interrupt the Captain and ask him—quite __incredulously—if a Primarch would really make such a crude joke._

Yes, really. Sense of humour is something you learn from the people around you—hence why some of my jokes will fly over your hard and vice versa. Lord Angron tends to find the same things entertaining as the gladiators of his planet did and sometimes those are… unexpected for one of his status. Still, this is neither here nor there.

While I was puzzling over the whole thing and wondering if it was something only a person from Angron's planet might catch easily enough, Janos simply said "yes" as he looked at the ceiling.

There was a moment of silence, before our Lord started laughing. Janos smiled a pale smile.

_I wasn't certain if Captain Kharn hadn't omitted something, as to me it seemed that the punch line got lost somewhere. _

He told me later it was the "I'm not making a joke" expression Janos had. I know the Griffons were about as confused as you were—their First Captain actually asked later me if Angron had managed to communicate with Janos behind our backs, because it looked like they had plotted the whole thing to confuse us. It must have been a Primarch thing.

Still, this went much better than I had expected. As I was about to relax and suggest I take the Griffons away, Lord Angron decided to ask another question. About as tactful as the first one, I might add.

"Your eyes look off," he told Janos. I was confused—I hadn't really looked at them, but from the glimpse I caught before deciding I preferred studying Angron's elbow, they looked normal enough. The Griffins were visibly uncomfortable, which puzzled me more.

"They're augmentic," Janos replied flatly. "I can give you a list of how much of me is missing, if you'd like."

That was not what I had expected. Of course, I had heard the XIth had been in need of surgery upon being discovered, but I had always taken it for exaggeration. Primarchs are insanely durable after all.

_Naturally, I decided to ask the Captain if he __had noticed anything._

Not really. Janos was wearing armor—the same shade of brown as his men. It was about as decorated: the main decoration was the golden winged star on his pauldron and chest. All I noticed about his eyes was that they were grey. Later on, though… but we will get to this point soon, actually.

Anyway, by this point, Angron decided to take over the conversation and asked, "How about you show me how you fight?"

"You don't have a shooting range big enough," Janos replied, a hint of amusement creeping back into his voice.

"I don't overcompensate," Angron replied.

Janos gave him a long measuring look and I could see our Lord starting to bristle—he dislikes prolonged eye contact. Then he shrugged and nodded. "Very well."

"Show them around," our Lord said as he led his brother away.

We stared at each other for a while—me and the Griffons, before one of them, a blonde with augmentic ears, gathered his wits and introduced himself. I think Janos had already made introductions for Angron, but I couldn't recall a single name. Stupid, wasn't it?

"Falk, Second Captain," he said extending his hand towards me. From his accent I gathered that he must have been Terran-born.

I shook his hand. "Kharn, Captain of the Eighth, Equerry to Primarch Angron."

He nodded in the direction of the two others. "The one with the tattoos is Cass, he's the First Captain and the one with the red hair is Adi."

"The Ninth," I guessed.

"However did you guess?" Adi muttered. I never figured out why he hadn't changed his name—it sounds so juvenile. Pity I never thought of asking him. It might have been amusing.

_I suggested that the Ninth Captain of the Celestial Griffons might take offen__se at such a query, but Captain Kharn was dismissive._

That's why it would have been amusing. Would have given me a bit of sport, too, if he turned out to be offended enough. Something to remember for the future. But I'm getting off topic. You may be still under the impression that an Imperial battleship is fascinating and being shown around one is a great experience. It might even be one, if you don't spend most of your life in transit on one. They're all the same; the differences are purely cosmetic, mostly in decorations or layout.

Still, I was told to show the Griffons around and so I did. Captain Adi proved to be as prickly a companion as I expected. I really have no clue why he kept being offended by everything.

"I've never fought along the War Hounds," Falk continued, giving Adi a sharp look. Not that he cared much about that and nor did I, but I suppose some people do care about such things like not insulting your host.

I shrugged, but he didn't seem too deterred by that, and added, "I'm sure it will be an enlightening experience."

That one was too smart by half and thought himself witty—as if I weren't aware of our reputation.

"This is the mess hall," I replied, waving in the general direction. They weren't blind, they probably could tell where the door was. "Here we drink the blood of our foes out of their skulls."

"I always thought this was the Wolves of Fenris," Cass said. He had a low gravely voice—the kind that makes you wonder if there isn't something wrong with the owner's throat.

"If you spike it," I replied drily.

That got some laugh out of Falk and Cass, but Adi remained sullen. "Yes, yes, we know the stereotypes, War Hound. You don't have to make jokes to remind us they're not always true."

"Would you be so kind as to sulk in silence?" Cass muttered to his companion. "You'll make a better impression if you don't open your mouth."

_I was quite surprised at this exchange; I had always believed members of the same Legion were… well, brothers. Such bickering seemed far from the ideal I had__ had in mind when thinking of the mighty Astartes interacting with one another._

We have our antipathies and friendships just like other men. Cass disliked Adi because he viewed him as competition and Adi disliked everyone. You meet people like that, don't you? Why should we be different? We're more efficient killers and harder to slay, but it doesn't mean we're completely dehumanized or walking paragons.

Yes, we are brothers—we will fight by each other's sides and protect one another, but just like blood-kin we will bicker. I may not remember my childhood well, but I do know that it's common for most siblings to fight a lot over the silliest things. Why would it be different with us?

After all, you didn't think of me as a paragon, did you? You all have an odd notion of us—on the one hand, we're some sort of ideal. On the other hand, you expect mindless butchers when you're to meet the War Hounds.

I'm not offended, but you should think about what I have said. If unaugmented humans have different personalities then why would augmented ones not vary, too?


	12. Less Perfect IV

The tranquil darkness of space suddenly changed, as the combined Emperor's Children and Dusk Raiders fleets entered the Materium in a burst of incandescent light. From the lumbering behemoths to slender cruisers, the fleet was probably the biggest gathering of space crafts that the Yogso system had seen since the Dark Age of Technology.

They passed the eighth planet, the last in the system and the first hail was sent into space, towards the 306th Expedition Fleet. The vox officer waited seconds, then minutes, before turning to shake his head. Then, he called out again and was met with the same dead silence. The smaller fleet remained immobile and mute.

Finally, one of the younger officers left the bridge briskly, heading towards Fulgrim's quarters.

Three hours later, Fulgrim's _Firebird _left the elegant _Pride of the Emperor_. She sailed smoothly between the ships and gracefully glided into the cumbersome _Endurance's _hangar bay.

* * *

The buzz that followed the clang was clearly something unsavory in binary. Fulgrim had to marvel how much emotion fitted into something so incomprehensible and flat, as he watched the Adept combat the hololith. It was a lost cause, it seemed. The image refused to focus, blinking out every few seconds. It took the adept a few minutes to triumph over the machine and two battle cruisers and one grand cruiser started revolving lazily in the air.

Once Fulgrim lifted his eyes off the display, he met Mortarion's stare. As their gazes joined, he realized that he couldn't really tell what his brother was thinking. It was… odd. Disconcerting. Shouldn't he be able to make some kind of a guess? Perhaps it was how the collar hid Mortarion's lower face that made divining what he thought so hard? The cowl was certainly not facilitating matters either, nor was his brother's reserved body language.

At times, he thought he could tell what was transpiring behind those amber eyes, but most of the time, he had no idea. It made him feel lost. Off balance.

At least he was certain that Mortarion was warming up towards him.

Well, perhaps not certain, but at least fairly sure.

Those thoughts, as uncomfortable as they were, made him realize something. If he reacted like this, how would others perceive his brother? Later, he'd have to talk with Mortarion about diplomacy. While they couldn't do much about the collar, there had to be a way to make his brother appear more approachable and less indifferent and intimidating. Still, this was a matter that could wait; now they had other things to deal with.

"Brother," Mortarion nodded and Fulgrim grinned at him as he approached.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, noting that both his Lord Commanders and Mortarion's First Captain were present, as well as the commanders of the Imperial Army. Captain Barett Ashdon was standing on Mortarion's right side. He and Vespasian exchanged nods, while Eidolon studied the image of the ships.

Mortarion gave an affirmative sign and Fulgrim turned to the officers.

"As you all know, we are pursuing a distress signal from the 306th Expedition Fleet," he started. "The ships you see are the main vessels:_ Sovereign of Steel, Pastor Clemens_ and _Miranda_. None of them have responded to our hails. If we receive no messages from them in the next twelve hours, we will send a boarding party to investigate."

The hololithic display changed, now showing the Yogso system and their path. "Currently, we are here," Mortarion said, pointing to a cluster of purple and grey dots. Briefly, the Phoenician wondered how his brother had sounded before he had faced the last warlord. Had his voice been as low? "We will remain here for the next eight hours: this will give possible survivors enough time to respond, while we prepare for the alternative. Then we will begin our approach."

"Once we reach this position," Fulgrim continued, as a red arrow flashed, indicating a point halfway between the 306th Fleet and their current position, "the boarding party will be teleported onto the _Miranda_."

"The party itself will consist of four squads of Emperor's Children and Death Guard veterans," Mortarion added.

"You, my friends," Fulgrim said, smiling at his two Lord Commanders, "and you, Captain Ashdon, will choose the squads. Report in four hours with your choices and we will begin the briefing."

"Dismissed," Mortarion said, as Barett sighed quietly.

* * *

Barett Ashdon was fond neither of Vespasian nor of Eidolon. He was aware that in Eidolon's case he simply disliked him for the fact that he was from another Legion, but he was quite certain that he'd find something more substantial to dislike soon enough. The other Lord Commander was far too cheerful at the prospect of them discussing something together for Barett not to suspect there was something... wrong.

"I don't see why the First Captain has to keep us company when we choose our men," Eidolon said, doing something that Barett classified as eyeballing with one's nose.

"Don't strain your pretty head too much," he shot back, as he started to clean his ear with his little finger in the most obnoxious manner he could manage. "You might get wrinkles." Somehow, the other Marine's prissiness brought out the worst in him, it seemed.

Vespasian had an expression which suggested he clearly shouldn't have said that.

"You'd do well to remember that I outrank you, Dusk Raider," Eidolon said. He had only said two sentences and Barett already disliked him.

"No, you don't," he said drily. "It might be a bit complicated to grasp, but the Dusk Raiders are not organized like the Emperor's Children. And we're from different Legions, so even if you go crying to your Primarch, I doubt that will have any effect."

Only when the words left his mouth, did he realize this was not necessarily true. He had a Primarch now. Could he really expect Mortarion to take his side here, without hesitation?

"You will regret that one day," Eidolon snapped.

"There's no need for that," Vespasian said, placing his hand on Eidolon's shoulder. "What will Lord Fulgrim say if he hears you and Captain Barett couldn't find a common ground? He will be most disappointed."

Eidolon gave his companion a sharp look, before angrily proclaiming, "Fine. Let us get on to business."

Preemptively, Barett started listing the most patient brothers he knew in his head.

* * *

"You wanted to talk with me?" Mortarion asked, as he followed Fulgrim into his rooms. He noticed his brother smile at the sight of the sculpture—it was standing opposite of his bed.

"Yes," Fulgrim replied, turning to face him. "Your room is rather… empty."

Mortarion arched his pale eyebrows. "I have to compensate for your compulsive art gathering."

Fulgrim gave him a surprised look, before smiling a smile that seemed strained to Mortarion. Evidently, he did not consider the joke very amusing. It was an intriguing observation. Still, he could not quite gauge why Fulgrim would dislike the jest—he had seemed amiable and good-natured so far. He would have to think about this later.

"It was not decorations I wanted to talk about with you, although I might have to find some more ornaments for you," Fulgrim said. "This room looks like you merely intend to sleep here, not like a place you'd wanted to _live_ in."

Mortarion sat down on his bed. "I don't need more decorations. I like it the way it is. Now, get to the point."

For a moment, Fulgrim just stood there in silence, watching him. Then, he sat down on the floor, crossing his legs.

"Could you take the collar off for a while?" he asked.

The request was quite puzzling, but Mortarion complied. He placed the piece of armor on his lap and watched Fulgrim, wondering why he would ask him to do this of all things.

"Hm… No," he said after a moment. "Put it back on and pull down the cowl."

Mystified, Mortarion obeyed again. He watched Fulgrim stare at him for a while, until the Phoenician asked, "You're confused, aren't you?"

Slowly, he nodded. At first, he thought that perhaps Fulgrim was finally going to admit he simply couldn't guess what others were thinking, if they weren't very expressive, but this was not heading in this direction.

"It will not only fall to you to lead Father's armies," the Phoenician said. "You shall be his voice. You will be the first true glimpse of Imperial authority for many a planet." He reached out and touched Mortarion's cheekbone with his fingertips. Mortarion sat still, the muscles of his neck growing stiff. He forced himself not to flinch at the unwelcome touch—he would have to explain the concept of personal space again—but his gaze focused on Fulgrim's hand, nevertheless. "You will have to win them over and it might not be easy if you refuse to show what you think as you do now."

Mortarion remained still and silent, his eyes locked on Fulgrim's hand. After a moment of strained silence, the Phoenician let his hand fall.

"I won my people over," Mortarion said finally.

"After putting yourself in danger," Fulgrim replied, a frown creasing his forehead. "I'd rather you avoided that. You never know what might happen."

"I've survived in places where air corroded metal," Mortarion replied, shaking his head.

"Not everyone will be convinced by displays of power or endurance," Fulgrim replied. "Some might even refuse to join us, if you focus only on such feats. I know it may seem to you that people who will reject you, if you show them strength, are not worthy of your attention. You're my brother, Mortarion. I'd hate to see people fear you."

Bemused, the Primarch of the Dusk Raiders watched his brother. They hardly knew each other and yet apparently Fulgrim considered him his responsibility. True, the Emperor had ordered Fulgrim to teach Mortarion, but it did not seem to be merely duty that was pushing Fulgrim.

"I think I'm too old to change that much," he said, shaking his head. "But I'll try to be only unsettling, if that will put you at ease."


	13. One IV

Angron was loud. His voice boomed when he spoke, his steps echoed. He was in constant motion, underlining his words with gestures, prowling when he listened. It made Janos want to grab him and force him to sit down, but he resisted the urge. What point would it have?

They left the Captains behind. He knew Cas and Falk would keep Adi's sourness in line. Most likely, they would make a better impression on the Eighth Captain of the War Hounds than he would make on Angron.

His brother was bigger than him: broad, built like the namesake of his Legion. He looked powerful and dangerous, with the red face paint and the scars on his torso. The last part made him wonder—he had a hard time understanding why anyone would want to show off signs of their own vulnerability. A scar only showed you had been weak enough to get wounded.

"This is the Rope," Angron said, and Janos realized he had been staring at the scar for some time now. "For each fight I took part in, I'd make a cut. All red, not one black."

Janos gave him a puzzled look, wondering how one made a black cut. Perhaps he misunderstood something? Not all of his brothers spoke Gothic or its variations as their native languages. And even a Primarch could sometimes fumble over an idiom.

"For a lost battle, you make a cut and rub some dirt from the arena in," Angron explained. "A black twist."

It was still odd, but Janos held his tongue and did not voice his disapproval of the practice. After all, he might not like the idea of scarring oneself for whatever purpose, but his new brother would not see it his way. He viewed this Rope of his as a sign of victory, of strength. He somehow doubted commenting on the danger of infection those "black twists" came with would be appreciated either.

When you have no control over your fate, you can at least control your body. Unless that is taken from you too—it seemed his brother had been spared that, at least.

"For a fight won, you let the cut heal—a red twist," Angron continued. "How do you commemorate your battles?"

Each Legion had its traditions. The Luna Wolves had a whole museum of trophies from conquered worlds and defeated armies. The Celestial Griffins had a different custom. "My Legion started doing this even before I joined. After each conquest, we take a piece of metal from the defeated—a gun, a piece of armor or part of a tank—and our techmarines add it to a mosaic on the bridge of _Beata Ira._"

Angron gave him a puzzled look, but before Janos could explain he hazarded a guess. "That's one of those Titan things?"

"Ah, no," Janos said. "That's the XIth Legion's flagship."

Angron sighed irritably. "You could keep the names of the ships in one language, you know? It's too confusing."

"You can tell Father that next time we see him," Janos suggested. He wasn't even certain why this bothered his brother so much. He had just accepted the fact that some names got translated and some didn't.

By then, they entered the training halls. The training cages stood in long rows on both sides of the room. Some were occupied—on a Space Marine vessel somebody was always training. The din of training blades and the whirring of automated systems stopped as they passed. The occupants of the cages turned to watch them, making the sign of Aquila in awed silence. Surprisingly, nobody knelt. There was always somebody who knelt, when Primarchs were about. He remembered quite vividly Horus telling people not to kneel and yet here, no one bent his knee.

Angron stopped in front of one of the empty training cages and the automatic doors hissed open. He gave the mechanism a sullen look and breathed out belligerently. For a while he hovered over the control console, before grinning to himself and pressing a combination with one large finger. The _tock_ sounds came in larger intervals than Janos was used to.

It wasn't exactly what Janos had been expecting. They'd barely met and fighting so soon was… odd? He wasn't certain what to make of it. Not yet. He didn't get much time to think in depth about it, as apparently Angron made a mistake with the codes.

With a sound of cutting air, automated blades descended from the ceiling and started whirling to Angron's irritation, if the growl he let out was any indication.

"I thought this was the combination," he snarled, before irritably punching in another code. This one seemed to be correct as the blades retreated into the ceiling.

"Let me try," Janos offered. "What did you want to do?"

He was not particularly fond of close combat, but he had spent enough in a training cage to know how to operate it. Horus had insisted he learned how to fight and so he regularly trained, even if he preferred the shooting range. After all, he could not rely on his Marines to protect him.

Angron glared at the console for a while longer, almost gnashing his teeth. Finally, with an angry snort, he nodded at Janos. "Make sure that thing doesn't start doing stuff like that."

Janos considered the request, before setting the parameters to neutral. Angron hovered quite uncomfortably close to his shoulder, watching his fingers intently as he entered the code. After a few seconds, he stepped back.

"I'll take off my armor. It will take a moment," he said. "You're not armored, so neither should I be."

There were racks outside of every training cage—some where brimming with weapons: axes, swords, even spears. Others were empty, prepared to accept the equipment of the occupants. While Angron picked his weapons, Janos took off his armor. Piece by piece, he placed them on the rack. Briefly, he regretted not asking anyone to come with him. Taking off one's armor on one's own took quite long. He wasn't even halfway done, when he heard Angron pacing impatiently behind him.

"You could always help with this," he offered, peering over his shoulder.

"And get you stuck in that?" Angron snorted.

"You will have to learn how to operate power armor," Janos replied, shrugging. "Why not start now?"

Angron grunted wordlessly in response and energetically stepped closer. Janos wasn't certain if his brother's aid had truly sped up the process—he had to instruct him quite often, but at least it kept Angron from pacing.

Finally, as the last piece clanked against the rack, Janos was left in the thin undersuit he wore beneath his armor. Near him metal chimed twice as Angron drew twin axes. Janos took a sword and they entered the cage together. They parted ways in the middle of the cage and each took a place opposite to the other. Janos watched his brother's form and tried to gauge as much as possible before making a move.

Angron was a seasoned fighter, but patience was clearly not his strong suite. Most likely he didn't need it before—he had fought mortals not nearly close to his strength or prowess. He charged: not blindly, but loudly announcing his attack with a bellow. Janos moved aside trying to swipe him from the left, but Angron twisted around and caught his attack with one of his axes. The other came whistling towards Janos' arm and he barely had the time to drop down. Quickly, he kicked Angron in the knee and jumped up.

His brother stumbled, giving Janos time to strike at his side, but somehow Angron managed to avoid getting hit and launch another strike at Janos. This one he barely blocked and stumbled away, off balance.

Clearly, Angron was better than him. Each attack was proving this to Janos—his brother had a fighter's instinct. His reactions were lightening quick—he did not think, he acted. Still, this instinct was the only thing that let Janos fight Angron on something approaching equal terms. Before, Angron had only fought unaugmented humans or so Janos had assumed. Perhaps he had trained with some of his Astartes by now, but nevertheless, nobody he had fought against had come close to a Primarch's size. Most of his blows came low and this allowed Janos to guess how to move.

Still, he needed to end this quickly, before Angron adjusted completely. Being beaten by a newly found brother during the first training fight would be a bit too embarrassing. He dove under Angron's arm and rammed him with his shoulder. The move itself was much more effective in armor, when one had pauldrons, but it served its purpose and made Angron stumble. Or so at least Janos thought - until one powerful arm wrapped around his throat and he found himself smashing head first into the wall.

"You'd have a better chance of winning if you didn't fight like you're going to lose," Angron said, shaking his head.

* * *

**AN:** In the words of Detritus the troll "Why I appear to be cogitating!" (paraphrased)


	14. Hound of War VI

In the end, we didn't discuss anything of any particular interest. We mostly talked about the usual things, like who killed how many xenos during a campaign and how Cas beat an ork with to death with its own leg. Marines tend to do that, even the Emperor's Children, though they'll tell you it's completely different in their case.

_I expressed some surprise over this and so the Captain had to sidetrack again. It seems it was becoming a habit._

Maybe I am being somewhat unfair. The Emperor's Children are as fine a Legion as any, but that does not mean they don't have their flaws, as loath as they might be to admit it. They are vain. They are arrogant.

_Perhaps suicidaly I pointed out that some of Captain Kharn's statements may be viewed as arrogant as well. Luckily for me, he merely shrugged and continued. _

It's not arrogance when one has the skill to back it up.

But, as I was saying, it might be that I am being unfair towards the Third Legion. I never liked them that much. I mean… they write poems. They paint. We're warriors, not peacocks. You'd have thought they had learned more from the Death Guard, but apparently it only made for some really odd friendships and really bad jokes.

Hm… Though, now that I think about it, I suppose they could be worse. They could use perfume.

But I'm off topic again. As I was saying I was talking with the Griffins and I suppose I was also trying to gauge where we would stand with one another. It's quite different to hear about someone, about their exploits, and then meet them face to face. In my experience, it's rare that you do not have to change your opinion on them. Don't you agree?

_The jibe was not entirely unwarranted, it pains me to admit. I did harbor certain prejudices, after all. On the other hand, it seems the Captain didn't notice the irony of him complaining about the Emperor's Children just a few moments ago. _

_I have said my input shall be minimal, but I think it's one of the observations that I should share. It was at this point that I truly realized that the Emperor's Astartes are still human. For all their prowess in battle, their fearlessness and monstrous strength, they share our flaws. Some are vain. Some are grouchy. Some make bad jokes._

_Luther of Caliban had once written that they are not "warriors with the warm hearts of men, but angels with the cold hearts of weapons." How odd that such words were uttered by a man who had known a Primarch so well, who had stood by his side as his Legion rose and yet could not see what had become so clear for me after mere days in the company of one Space Marine._

_Though, I will admit the perspective of an Astartes can be very alien at times._

So, we traded old and new war stories and each of us was trying to make ourselves look the bigger, stronger and more ferocious one.* As it turns out, Adi was there when the Griffins razed Trujillo, though that was about as much as I got out of him. He just grumbled that it deserved what it got and that was it.

Quite disappointing really. I mean, we all know the rumors about Primarch's Janos planet of origin, but you'd want to have them confirmed, but the person who knows more will not talk. Still, we have to live with such disappointments. I think Cas was talking about his fight with an Eldar Wraithlord, when both Janos and Angron found us.

"Cas, I need you to contact our fleet," Janos said. "We need to decide what is our next destination—notify all the usual people. We need them here, in the briefing room on the _Conqueror_ in three hours."

Cas was gone like that and so was I—after all, I was the only War Hound officer present and somebody needed to call our part of the committee. It was still a bit of a tight schedule and truthfully, I'd rather we wouldn't consider leaving until Lord Angron got used to Primarch Janos and the Griffins, but on the other hand, it was getting boring and I've been told I tend to… fret. About sixty three times until today.

By the time I notified everybody I needed to—that actually didn't take that much time: all Army officers and Space Marines have at least a commbead on themselves all the time, not to mention our armor does come with a communication array—Janos had started quizzing Angron on his knowledge of our Fleet.

He wasn't doing half bad from what I caught. The only big mistake he made was about how many ships we had in our fleet. Otherwise, he got everything right, including all the Army units and I'm pretty sure none of us ever gave him a list of them.

_I suggested it might have been the reports about the fights between the ex-gladiators and the soldiers, to which I got:_

That's possible. In any case, those three hours passed quite quickly and we all filed into the briefing room. We—the War Hounds—knew our places. Or rather had known. Now that we had a Primarch he took the main place and not Ghreer. Janos took a spot beside him, which had the Griffns stand on his right and us opposite to them. With the Army, the Fleet Masters and the head Adepts, we encircled the hololithic display.

"With your permission, brother," Janos said, "I have asked Master Graam to prepare a list of possible target locations."

Angron nodded.

"We have information of two habitable systems from old data found on this planet," the Griffin's Master of the Fleet said. "At the time the information was recorded neither system was inhabited by any sentient life forms. The first, four weeks travel away, consists of three terrestrial planets and one gas giant. Two of the terrestrial worlds are habitable; however, the system itself seems to be poor in resources. The second one, six weeks travel, consists only of gas giants; however, one of them has habitable moons."

"While we could flag the systems as viable for colonization, it might be prudent to at least send some scouts there, given that we have no current data on them," Graam added.

Angron started pacing, which as you might imagine, distracted the Master of the Fleet. He fumbled a bit before continuing his report.

"We have reports of several systems in the relative vicinity by our exploration fleets that might be of economical interest," he said. "Ten weeks travel spinwards, there is a cluster of systems that should be rich enough in resources to consider them viable for the Mechanicum to colonize. The next system, reachable in two weeks, had been colonized once. There had been no contact with them and our Navigator had warned us that the Warp is unstable in that region."

"We have also received a message containing coordinates corresponding to the location of a system that ought to have been colonized at the end of the first colonization movement. It appears that they retained enough technological know-how to detect our coming here and will welcome us."

* * *

* _When I was editing this chapter, I stumbled on this piece of recording. While it did not fit into the narrative itself, we decided to share nevertheless, for sheer amusement value, if nothing else._

"So, we traded old and new war stories and were trying to make ourselves look bigger, stronger and more ferocious than the other one," Kharn said. He gave the Remembrancer a puzzled look as the man covered his mouth and snorted.

"Sorry," Maxim said weakly. "It's just… you were having a dick measuring contest!"

Kharn stared at him blankly, before musing, "Huh, I think I actually took part in some. When I was… uh… thirteen."

The Remembrancer blinked. "That's actually something I noticed—I mean I was sort of aware of it, but I didn't truly realize it until I started interviewing you—you don't really care much about sex anymore, do you?"

The Captain looked towards the ceiling, thinking. "Well, no. Why should I?"

"I mean… it's just odd," Maxim said. "Ah, but I've interrupted you. Let's go back to the topic."

"And keep your observations on contests to yourself," Kharn said.

* * *

**AN**

Some Remembrancers have more luck than brains.


	15. Less Perfect V

Bright green light heralded the appearance of forty giants in Terminator armor. The suits themselves were still not common and to tell the truth, twenty were actually all the Emperor's Children had. The Dusk Raiders, by the virtue of having more members, had managed to accumulate more. The group broke into smaller clusters, as the Marines prepared to head for their objectives.

Sergeant Huron-Fal eyed his squad. The idea of sending mixed-squads was naturally correct, given that it was a decision taken by two Primarchs. There were surely very good reasons for it and it was bound to be successful. Having ascertained of himself that he was in no way doubting his Primarch and Lord Fulgrim, Huron-Fal noted that two of the Emperor's Children were eyeing him back and one—Thorian, if he remembered his name correctly—was wrinkling his nose at Brother Helon. He had hoped the fact that the two had known each other beforehand would make things easier. In retrospect, he ought to have asked Helon about the whole thing.

"Move out," he said, shaking his head. His squad needed to get to the bridge and it would take a while before they got there from the landing bay. Huron-Fal did not expect any resistance, given that so far they had not picked up any signs of life, but nevertheless had his Squad move in a scouting pattern, with Helon at the front and Thorian in the back. He was not going to take risks here—veterans they all may be, but nevertheless even the most experienced warriors fell prey to private animosities.

The ship was silent. There were no voices, only the thump of their own armored feet as they marched forward. There were no corpses, which worried Huron-Fal. If the crew were dead, their bodies should be somewhere. The lack of cadavers made the sergeant wonder, if perhaps someone had survived. They couldn't have left—the shuttles were still there and Morr with his squad had reported that the teleportarium was not in any state to be used safely. Or at all. The survivors, if there were any, had to be still on the _Sovereign_. There could be a good reason why they had not responded to their hails or tried to check who was making all the noise—they had not been on the bridge, because they were wounded or frightened. The communications array was malfunctioning. They suspected a trap. He could list many more reasons and none sounded harmless.

The lights were on, illuminating the floor and the walls. Neither looked particularly odd: simple, utilitarian, the same as on any Imperial ship. Occasionally, the Marines would spot a mark left by a stray bullet or a las discharge. Clearly, the ship's crew had been fighting something here, but Huron-Fal couldn't make out any hints of Xenos weapons being fired. Perhaps mutiny then? But that would still leave the crew alive. Some of it, anyway. Those were the only signs of battle they could find. This tidiness was starting to become less then just odd and more unnerving as they progressed.

"This is wrong," one of the Emperor's Children said, as they passed another empty corridor.

"Truly, you are the master of obvious, Jacinthus," grumbled Thorian from his spot at the back of the group.

"Pay attention," Huron-Fal growled. Thankfully no one saw fit to be witty and asked if they should watch out for the walls falling on them or something like that. Joking in a place like this would only serve to make his temper flare. Even now, he half expected something to happen—a shot, a scream, a running crew member, anything. Perhaps the Emperor's Children felt the same? Even experienced Astartes would have to feel uneasy in such a place and that could account for the rather unbefitting demeanor.

And yet nothing happened. The ship remained silent and dead. The only sounds were the fall of their feet and the thrumming of their armours' power packs. Huron-Fal felt almost absurdly like he was inside a mausoleum. A desecrated mausoleum.

Then Helon stopped and pointed at a corridor with his twin-linked bolter. According to the data Huron-Fal received, it was not the one they were supposed to investigate first. Nevertheless, he approached his battle brother and looked in the indicated direction—he knew Helon wouldn't stop because of something inconsequential.

The first few meters were no different than what they had so far seen, but afterwards there was progressively more damaged. At first, it was merely some sort of dark residue on all the surfaces, but as one moved towards the end of the corridor the amount of damage grew. There was a large gaping hole in the wall to Huron-Fal's left and another opposite to it, as if something had exploded. Remains of some metal object, probably of a door, lay scattered all over and there was a familiar smell in the air.

"Burnt bodies," Jacinthus said.

"This was supposed to be the sanctum of the Astropaths," Huron-Fal mused loudly. "Change of plans—we'll check this first. I want to be sure there's nothing nasty hiding here."

Helon nodded and headed forward cautiously. He navigated through the debris—quite the feat given how bulky his armor was, as he neared the first hole and carefully peered inside, before waving the rest of the squad over.

What remained of the room could be called empty, given that none of its furnishing had survived. Most of it was mixed with the mortal remains of the inhabitants, burned to ash or at best a charred paste. As soon as they entered Huron-Fal felt as if something was subtly wrong. He and his battle brothers had seen quite a few places destroyed or damaged by an explosion and they knew what signs to look for to determine the cause. They searched all over, trying to gauge what could have caused such damage and yet found no signs of explosives or discharges from a weapon. It was almost as if the Astropaths had spontaneously exploded. The thought made Huron-Fal stop in his tracks. It was not as absurd an idea as he might have thought. Psykers did tend to come to messy ends, if they overtaxed themselves. Some mutated spontaneously, others fell prey to Warp predators and there were those who simply exploded. Something like that could have easily happened here.

But what could have caused the Astropaths to tax their powers to such a degree? Perhaps they had been calling for help? Unfortunately, the room offered no answers for this question. If there had been any records of what the psykers had been doing before their demise, it was most likely destroyed. If they were lucky, it was simply stored elsewhere. Having ascertained that they would not find any further clues, Huron-Fal had his squad get back on their way to the bridge, as he contacted the other squads.

* * *

"We've reached the reactor room," Sergeant Leander said, responding to Huron-Fal's query as to their current location. "The reactor itself is operating at a minimal setting, the control systems are offline. No Adepts in sight. The servitors are gone as well."

"What? All systems?" Huron-Fal asked, his voice disbelieving.

"I'm not a techmarine," Leander replied, as he started to trail the golden eagle on his breast, like he always did when impatient. "But according to Brother Oeneus only the most basic systems are working. We cannot turn on the security protocols or access any database."

He shook his head and rather grouchily added, "We can turn off the lights and change the temperature."

He could almost hear Huron-Fal rolling his eyes, as his Dusk Raider counterpart spoke. "Keep on looking."

Once the transmission stopped, Leander turned to look at his squad, his eyes resting on the purple and golden form of his blood brother.

Techmarine Oeneus was frowning, as he inspected the control consoles with utmost care. They appeared to be perfectly intact—there were no signs of outside damage and the one he had currently dismantled appeared to be undamaged inside as well. Unlike the rest, he was not wearing Terminator armor and so had quite firmly insisted the others stay away from the devices, to prevent them from accidentally stepping on something important.

"Odd," he murmured to himself. "This should work."

That earned him several quizzical stares.

"It's not broken," he said. He shook his head and carefully started putting the cogitator back together: piece by piece until he could switch it on again. Slowly, the screen blinked to life, the machine spirit awaking from its slumber. Oeneus followed the data displayed on the screen for any mentions of anomalies, but the diagnostics weren't showing anything. Finally, when the cogitator appeared to be ready to display the data, the screen flickered out and grew black again.

"Maybe you broke something when you were fiddling with it?" Leander asked, frowning.

"Lay off," one of the Dusk Raiders said gruffly. "It's not like you know what goes where, anyway."

Oeneus blinked, surprised to find such an unexpected defender of his skill and virtue. Nevertheless, he felt better knowing not all Dusk Raiders had missed how meticulous he had been.

"Perhaps you have missed the fact that I am a sergeant and we do not have all day, Brother Alvin," Leander replied snappily.

Oeneus sighed and prodded Leander with his mechandrite. That earned him an offended look from his brother and several mortified ones from his battle brothers. The Dusk Raiders he understood, but he thought the Emperor's Children would have learned already that one just couldn't act all formal around one's sibling all the time.

"And you, sibling," he said in a polite tone, "are an u- "

Leander stifled a groan before hastily saying, "Perhaps my impatience is getting the better of me. I shall investigate the chambers to the left."

Sometimes, he really wished Oeneus had never become a Techmarine. He had been so much easier to live with.

* * *

Leander was used to the sight of corpses in various states of dismemberment. He was also fairly well acquainted with the sight of decay and so finding a mummified body on the floor did not faze him particularly. He regarded the skeletal brown form, trying to gauge what might have been the cause of death.

It had to be a high-ranking adept, given how heavily augmented it had been. Most of its lower face and neck had been replaced by metal, wire and some strange apparatus. It had far too many legs for Leander's liking. He had never been fond of the Mechanicum, finding their obsessive augmentation to be a perversion of the perfect human form.

He chased the thoughts away. Oeneus could have been one of them, had they not been chosen to become Emperor's Children. He knelt down next to the corpse and carefully tried to lift the robes on its chest. There was a rather odd hole in them and something black had stained them there. It looked as if something blunt had been shoved through the Adept's chest. It had been done with enough force to come out through the back. But what had been the weapon?

Slowly, he rose and took a step back from the body, turning his attention back to his companions.

He noticed that Alva was already riffling through the belongings of the previous inhabitant, along with a Dusk Raider by the name Dowell. They would leave the room in a worse condition than the one they had found it in, but there was no way to avoid damage when trying to search through a place in bulky and heavy Terminator armor.

Meanwhile, Phoebus was doing his best to turn on the personal cogitator of the Adept and apparently having a lot more success that Oeneus had had with ones in the previous chambers. Leander didn't fail to notice that Phoebus had followed the Techmarine's example and removed his gauntlets to do so.

"This is a log," he observed after a while, just as Alva and Dowell discovered that the leftmost locker held a pile of laundry. "Seems like he or she kept a list of breakdowns on the ship."

"Does it tell us anything about the cogitators?" Leander asked, as he approached the other Marine.

Phoebus nodded and started scrolling down the list, until he reached the final entries. "Indeed. Apparently, they started breaking down and refusing to operate… a month from the last entry, at least. There were only a few problems at first, but by the latest entry most of them were either out of commission or malfunctioning to a serious degree. That was roughly two weeks ago."

Leander nodded. Then something occurred to him. "How come this one is working?"


	16. One V

Janos had decided to remain on the _Conqueror _in transit. He had promised Father to teach his new brother and he could not do this when away from him, could he? He didn't regret this decision either, but at times he felt out of place. Angron had already learned quite a lot and seemed to prefer to turn to his Eighth Captain for advice.

Still, there was one thing that Kharn didn't seem to be adequate for. For all their durability and combat skill, the War Hounds were not the kind of opponents that could truly challenge a Primarch. Admittedly, Janos was quite certain that most of the time he was not the right opponent either and Angron was the challenging one and only a part of it stemmed from his attitude, but nevertheless, he dutifully sparred with Angron.

Every day.

"This is weird," Angron said, testing his axes again. He had been restless all the time, repeating actions over and over, as if they were somehow new to him. It was the first time he had donned his power-armor and it seemed that he needed time to get used to it. Janos nodded—he could sympathize. Armor—whole body armor with all those odd parts inside—had been something completely foreign to him, too.

"You will get used to it," he said.

"Easy-" Angron started to say, but fell silent. For a long while, he studied Janos' face, as if he had seen him for the first time. It was somewhat disquieting, given that usually Angron tended to dislike prolonged eye-contact. In that moment, however, he maintained it with surprising intensity. "You sound like you really know that and not like you're just saying that."

He circled Janos, both of them falling into a battle stance.

"It's not like any of us started wearing power armor as children," he pointed out, but Angron shook his head.

"That's not the whole truth," Angron said. Janos wondered how Angron kept noticing those things. He wasn't that obvious, after all.

"I suppose it's not," he conceded after a moment and found himself doubling over almost instantly. He had lost his focus and Angron was a demanding opponent, one that used any moment of weakness. He managed to give his brother an offended look and huff out, "I won't tell you now. You can figure it out yourself."

Their gazes met for a moment and he could see the bewilderment written over Angron's face, followed by an annoyed snort. "That is not funny and unfair."

Janos almost shrugged and dismissed his brother's complaint, but stopped himself. He wasn't being fair. They were brothers. Family. Shouldn't they trust one another then? Perhaps this was what was bothering him? Not the fact that he wasn't much of a challenge during sparring, but that he was the one responsible for the distance between them. Angron was open. Janos kept things to himself.

"No, it's not," he conceded. He let his sword arm fall and motioned at Angron with his free hand to follow him. Perhaps his brother found it easier to talk when fighting. He certainly seemed to be unable to stand still for a moment and by now, it seemed to Janos most of Angron's flashes of insight came when they were fighting.

Janos was not him. Perhaps he'd been wrong to assume his combat instincts had been destroyed long ago. Sometimes, when they trained, he almost reached the point where he wasn't making conscious decisions, where he reacted, but it was just brief flashes and most of the time he had to concentrate still. Besides, talking was hard. Searching for words and trying to fend off the furious maelstrom that was his brother was demanding, even when talking about less complicated matters. It would be impossible, if he were to fully explain himself.

"Unlike you I wasn't a warrior when Father found me. I wasn't in a shape to be anything."

He paused, trying to find the right words to go on, and failing. Instead, he started to remove his armor, piece by piece. This time, he didn't stop at the suit underneath, slowly exposing flesh. Most of it was hidden anyway, even without the protective shroud that his amour or clothes made. Both his back and his chest were covered by one tattoo—a giant likeness of a griffin, done in the brown and gold of his Legion.

But underneath the meticulously inked feathers and the ferocious beak there were the scars: a giant Y-shaped one, starting at his shoulders, joining on his chest and then running down his abdomen and smaller ones on his lower back.

Angron stared at him in silence, before letting out an annoyed half-hiss half-sigh. "If you are going to explain, do it. If not, tell me who will."

Janos gave him an offended look, but before he could manage to reply, his brother leaned closer and tapped his chest. "I've seen something like that—the High Raiders did it with corpses. You were taken for dead? You could have just said it."

"Dear brother, you have the tact of an angry rhino," Janos snapped.

Angron gaped for a moment, before saying, "I've heard be-"

Janos didn't hear the rest of the sentence, because by now he was quite certain he had had enough of being interrupted. The rest of his brother's words were muffled by his fist connecting with Angron's jaw. It silenced Angron quite well, though Janos suspected it was mostly surprise that was keeping his brother from interrupting again.

"I'm trying to explain to you how I managed to get gutted like a fish," he said. "If you do want to hear it, you will hear it from me, at my pace. And you will stay silent."

Angron stared at him, surprise plain on his features. Slowly, he nodded and took a step back. Janos was starting to feel uncomfortable. Outbreaks like that always made him feel guilty afterwards. Guilty and worried that he had damaged something, and yet, it didn't seem to be the case.

Slowly, he started his tale. He tried to focus on the bare facts and keep the emotions at bay. The very beginning proved hardest—he found he hardly remembered being found or what came next at all. A vague smell of grass and moist black soil, rain dripping down on him and two surprised voices. There had been two of them, a man and a woman…

But even as he spoke about it, a sense of dread lurked behind every word. He knew what was coming. A short period of false calm, when the world had seemed secure and then…

That part he remembered most vivid of all. The last day when he could walk and run and see. He remembered the bitter taste of the berries, the panicked shouts—a woman's high voice on the verge of hysteria and a male voice in the background.

They took him to a hospital—a clean white building with bright lights. Inside, figures as white as the walls bustled and the two with him seemed smaller and dirty compared to the staff. One of the white figures hovered over him, shinning a light in his eyes, taking blood samples, checking, checking, then came the shouting and then…

Then all was black.

He felt a sharp stab of pain, as something flat and hard collided with the side of his face. The hit had been powerful and he stumbled back, confused and-

Angron. He was there, watching him with a frown—but not the usual, impatient one.

"I'll find somebody else to tell me the rest," his brother said. "I didn't think-…"

He paused, shook his head and then grabbed Janos' shoulder. "I'm sorry. I will ask somebody else."

Janos stared at him, confused at the sudden change of heart. He felt lost—what had happened? True, he had never tried to tell the full story to anyone, but… But he didn't remember what he had told Angron or how he said it. It was almost as if a dark pit had opened in his head as soon as he recalled the past and it tried to swallow him whole, drag him back to where he had been trapped so long ago.

"There's not much else to tell-," he started to say, but Angron stopped him.

"I'm going to ask somebody else," he said firmly and Janos suddenly realized they were maintaining eye contact—had been for some time. His brother was still frowning and chewing on his lip.

"What did I do?" he asked, the feeling of dread slowly creeping back.

Angron broke the eye-contact first, closing his eyes. For a moment, just one, painful moment, he stopped moving at all.

"You frightened me," he replied.


	17. Hound of War VII

It's easy to assume that during the Great Crusade we were sent from one war zone to next. We are not Emperor's Children and Angron is no Horus, but we actually did end up on a few worlds which required a more delicate approach.

_By this point, I was starting to learn my boundaries with the Captain and I allowed myself to comment that it does not surprise me that much. I had made some research after finding out where I was to be assigned and I was aware that Primarch Angron had a cadre of diplomats accompanying his Fleet._

All fleets had them, just like all fleets took iterators and clerks. You can't expect a soldier to negotiate a peace treaty, let alone one involving commerce. Apparently, there are all sorts of variables one needs to take into account—local customs, the affluence of the entity you are negotiating with and how badly we destroyed it prior to the negotiations.

But, as I was saying, we didn't always end up fighting. This was the case with the world first brought to compliance by Lord Angron.

The system we entered had only one inhabited planet—Tenebris. It wasn't a particularly hospitable one, though it was no Death World. The main problem was that its atmosphere tended towards thick clouds and so more often then not, day turned into perpetual dusk. It was a rather gloomy place.

The population had settled during the first migration, at least that was what the Adepts had found out about it. Apparently, it was a much more inviting place back then. I was told a gradual shift in its orbit and… something to do with forests, caused a change in climate.

The other information of interest about the colonists was that they were apparently mostly members of the same religious community. While many tend to hope that the passing of ages has taught the people of a planet the folly of religious faith, it turns out more often than not that the isolation of the Long Night had only strengthened the local beliefs.

_I was quite surprised at this statement and asked what actions they intended to take if such superstitious ways still prospered._

I keep forgetting it isn't common knowledge. The planet's populace was friendly and wanted to embrace the rest of humanity. While it may sound off, coming from me, attacking it would be premature. First, the iterators and the diplomats would make sure that their peaceful ascension into the Imperium would see them throwing away religious dogma and embracing the Imperial Truth. If they refused, then we would be forced to step in. After we enforced this, in either way and the planet was deemed compliant, we would leave supervisors, to make sure they are following through with it.

I suppose the diplomats must have had this on their minds as they prepared to meet our lost brethren. They had quite enough time to polish their best arguments, since we spent roughly fourteen weeks in transit. We were hailed as soon as we entered the system. Apparently, the inhabitants of Tenebris were eager to meet other humans after the imposed solitude of the Long Night. Angron was rather disappointed and mentioned a few times that he was told he would lead armies, though he did cheer up somewhat when I pointed out he wouldn't have to be negotiating.

_I voiced some surprise at both Captain's Kharn casual admission and the fact that Primarch Angron would be so callously unconcerned about the lives that would be lost in a campaign. My sentiments seemed to have caught the Captain by surprise—and though in the previous chapter I noted that Space Marines are still human, I must admit they do tend to be very alien at times._

It's not like that at all. We're all going to die in battle. Our whole life is dedicated to being warriors, to killing the enemies of Mankind. Of course we prefer battle to standing and making a scary impression.

As for Lord Angron… When we found him, he intended to die in battle with his gladiators. Does this speak of a high regard for life? As a gladiator, he saw his companions die for the enjoyment of the crowd. He never learned life—his life, the lives of those he knew—had value at all. And then, when they rebelled, they found out they could not win. They would die, but then it didn't really matter to him or them anymore. Their life had always been cheap, and now they were at least free to choose how they would lose it.

His upbringing, his life before being reunited with the Emperor, beloved by all, didn't merely teach him that life has little value. It made him into a killer, a man of action. Our Lord is a warrior first and foremost. He's not a politician like Horus Lupercal or the Phoenician. So, yes, he was always more enthusiastic about war than peace, even if it might seem callous.

And no, it didn't particularly worry us. War is our purpose.

Isn't it hypocritical of you to sound so surprised? A lot of art boils down to "war is glorious" and "dying in war is glorious", doesn't it?

_I had to concede that this was true, though I did point out that most of those works omit such details as flying kidneys. Let us just say that we had a rather lengthy discussion on which body parts fly during a fight and leave it at this._

It was raining when we landed. No, rain is too big a word. It was that kind of drizzle that makes you want to bite off the head of the nearest passer-by. I was told later that such weather was far from unusual. The artificial light helped somewhat, though I suppose some people might have suffered a seizure, given what it illuminated. The Tenebrians apparently decided that since they lived in permanent gloom they must make up for it by painting their buildings outrageously.

The hall of the spaceport—the first building we saw there—was bright blue. The windows and doors were framed by orange abstract patterns. I suppose they weren't expecting anything to attack them, either, given that the windows were huge. There was only one missile battery, painted bright yellow, no doubt to make it a better target. From the landing platform, I could see the city sprawl beneath us. It was just as bright, as if someone just started splashing around paint all over it. From what I could notice, the architecture wasn't particularly remarkable. Nothing like the spires of Prospero, just blocky hab-units, only brightly painted.

The indigenous population didn't have much better taste in clothing than in architecture. The group that welcomed us was dressed in various shades of purple and they were hiding under the pinkest canopy I've seen in my life. It was one of those moments when I was glad that my helmet hides my face.

"You will see more surprising sights," Primarch Janos said in a flat, if hushed tone to Lord Angron.

Our Primarch grunted wordlessly in reply. I couldn't really guess if it was a sound of agreement or just a noise to signify he had heard Janos. Moments later the small group of locals came close enough to talk comfortably.

"We welcome you most cordially to our humble world," said a middle-aged man, who looked like his own clothes wanted to eat him. "It is a great joy to finally meet our long lost brothers."

"And sisters," Lord Angron rumbled, looking meaningfully at the two female diplomats. I suppose our hosts could be forgiven not noticing them. Primarchs tend to obscure a lot.

"Of course," the speaker replied, nodding hastily. "But perhaps we could continue inside out of the rain?"

We followed our hosts, steeling ourselves for more aggressive colours, but apparently their love for vividness didn't extend to decorating interiors. It seemed quite familiar—at first I couldn't guess why, but then I realized the building must have been ancient, built in the times of colonization. Those structures had been reused over and over, and so you could end up on a planet with completely different architecture than that of Terra and yet, end up walking into a very familiar place.

This one seemed to have been refitted somewhat with larger windows and one large hall replacing the usual smaller ones. Another man greeted us just behind the door and offered some local grain mixed with salt to the Primarchs and the diplomats. Fortunately, they did not bring musicians for the welcome.

Next we were transported to a small palace—from what I heard it was the summer home of the Tenebrian royal family. As it turned out, sometime during the Long Night Tenebris had turned away from… democracy, I think. Or was it an oligarchy?

In any case, once we arrived there was a moment of milling about. First, a small group with a canopy rushed up, to shield our hosts and the diplomats from the rain, no doubt fearing they'd dissolve.

Finally, we were led inside, into a large hall. It had all the trappings: a red carpet, foreboding paintings of ancestors with various degrees of squint and impractically huge marble stairs. We proceeded into a large chamber, where we were greeted by the ruler of Tenebris—a portly man in red robes lined with vivid green—and a significant part of his court, all of them dressed in bright colours. There was also a huge table with some tiny sandwiches and a pile of little balls in golden wrapping.

_I asked if that had been everything and the Captain shook his head, frowning._

No, there was a lot more. Like glasses with some local alcohol and all sorts of things you can eat in one bite. Or half a bite, really.

Make it a quarter of a bite.

The Primarchs and the diplomats were invited to eat, once all the greetings and such were done, while we stood and looked menacing. There was more talk of how we all were so overjoyed to meet our lost brothers and sisters, and what an important moment it was for Tenebris and so on, all in the same spirit. In between, servants scurried with drinks on trays, but strangely, they never seemed to get close to the two women so they could help themselves, too. Although at this point, I wasn't thinking about it all, only on how dull it all was and that I would have preferred a destination with something to fight. Frankly, I expected Lord Angron to grow bored after the first fifteen minutes, but he was watching our hosts keenly.

It surprised me, because I really couldn't imagine why he'd find this repetitive babbling interesting in the slightest, but since he was a Primarch, I just assumed it was something I wouldn't understand anyway.

After a while, though, I did notice something odd. The locals seemed to find the female diplomats something out of ordinary. As soon as one of them said something, they looked…

_The Captain pauses, looking around for a moment, deep in thought._

They looked as if something very out of the ordinary had happened. As I watched them, I suddenly realized they were all men.


	18. Less Perfect VI

Nothing had hinted at what they would find on the bridge. Huron-Fal had thought he was prepared, but as soon as the door slid open, he knew it was not the case. He had expected a room full of dismembered corpses, tortured captives or an ambush.

Instead, he found a nightmare.

The bridge was alive. Every inch of the chamber was covered in a writhing mass of pink flesh, patches of hair, human eyes and mouths dotting the surface like obscene flowers. Some of them were whispering, babbling nonsense, while others howled like mad wolves. One word was repeated over and over again, like a broken record: "Help."

Huron-Fal registered all of this only marginally. It was the middle of the chamber, the captain's throne that captivated his attention. There was _something_ there. It kept a roughly humanoid shape, with limbs that from a distance might have passed for arms and legs. But Huron-Fal had a closer view—he could see one writhing tentacle replaced the left arm and the other members were closer to spikes. All of it was as covered with mouths just like the flesh on the walls and the floor. And yet, there was still that was recognizably human, something that told Huron-Fal this was not its original shape.

It slowly turned its head or the growth that passed for it and blinked with a myriad of eyes.

"We needed help," some of the mouths moaned.

"Where were you?" the others hissed.

Huron-Fal raised his bolter and shot. The head burst in a spray of gore, but the mouths continued to hurl accusations at them like an obscene choir.

"Brother-Sergeant!" somebody shouted behind him. "The walls!"

Huron-Fal turned to the side and found himself staring at the fleshy carpet spreading outside of the bridge. Slowly, an eye opened and blinked lazily.

"Move back, quick!" he snapped, backing away as fast as possible in tactical dreadnaught armor. The growth was spreading, but as its tendrils crawled away from the bridge it slowed down, thus allowing the Terminators to move to a safe distance.

"Grenades," Huron-Fal called out. From what he saw, the cogitators and the log engines were destroyed anyway, eaten by the growth already. A few explosions wouldn't damage anything of value.

* * *

The _Endurance_'s bridge was always a busy place, but the bustle of activity gained a new quality with the first report of hostile activity on the Sovereign. It started with one sentence: "Squad Huron-Fal is falling back" and cascaded, as the Dusk Raiders Sergeant followed up with his own, short, report.

"Bridge is taken, My Lord." There was a crackle distorting the words, but not to a degree that it would render them incomprehensible. "Unknown life-form, likely hostile, seems to be reacting to our presence. Bridge assumed destroyed. No loses."

Mortarion's lips were drawn into a tight thin line, as he considered the report. "Status of the creature?"

"Blowing up the central part appears to have stopped its growth," was the reply. "Orders?"

Mortarion looked at Fulgrim—he had commanded before, but not like this. As alien as the feeling was, he found himself wondering about his choices, about the steps he was taking. He had never fought on a space ship. The men under his command could survive far more than anyone he had known before, but at the same time the enemies they would face were nothing like the Worlords of Barbarus. Before, he had been there, in the heart of the storm, fighting along his Death Guard. Now, all he had was voices, telling him what they were doing.

"Keep a safe distance and observe," he finally ordered. Fulgrim nodded slightly, signaling he agreed with the course of action.

"Aye, my Lord," Huron-Fal replied and cut the link.

Mortarion remained motionless, watching the holo-projection of the _Sovereign_ in silence. How did one fight on such a vessel? He could imagine it, but was it enough? How did one get rid of all the crew? Even if _Endurance_ dwarfed it, the _Sovereign_ was enormous with uncountable hiding places. Logically, somebody had to have escaped and yet so far all the teams reported no survivors.

"What do you make of it all?" he asked Fulgrim.

The Phoenician closed his eyes for a moment, his brow knitting in a frown.

"Whoever did this, must not want anybody else to learn what happened," he said. "They didn't just get rid of the crew. No, they went further and destroyed all the evidence, all records of what transpired."

Mortarion nodded. This much was at least obvious, given how little information they had managed to gather. But this was not all—far from it. There was something, a sense of unease that kept nagging at him. He should know what to expect and yet, he couldn't quite place his finger on it.

"It is merely a hypothesis," Fulgrim continued. "But given that Huron-Fal and his Squad noticed human body parts growing on the wall, I think our enemy may have used some kind of Warp-manipulation to get rid of the crew. That would require powerful psykers."

"Do you think they're still there?" Mortarion asked, after considering his brother's words.

"It is a possibility," the Phoenician replied. "If I remember correctly, one of your Marines there is a Librarian?"

He pronounced the last word with a slight hesitation and some distaste.

Mortarion nodded slowly. "Naram-Sin, I believe."

He glanced at Barrett, who nodded to confirm it was the right name. The First Captain of the Dusk Raiders had opted to stay silent and Mortarion wondered for a moment if he was judging him too.

* * *

Naram-Sin felt something trickle down his lip. Instinctively, he raised his hand to wipe the offensive fluid away. When he pulled it away, the ceramite of his gauntlet was stained crimson. He had taken off his helmet long ago, having always preferred to trust his eyes.

"This place is tainted," he snarled.

"We were given orders and your complaining does not bring us any closer to carrying them out," the Emperor's Children sergeant replied. The Librarian could hear his disdain, even if the helmet hid the Marine's expression.

"I've just told you what happened to the ship," Naram-Sin replied, fighting to keep his voice level. Space Marines were not made for patience. Nevertheless, he had to remember the Emperor's Children were on his side and that he was representing his Legion.

"You have not, _Librarian_," the sergeant—Urbgenius—replied, pronouncing the last word as if merely saying it sullied his tongue. "We are to find survivors, if there are any. We are to check what happened to the Navigator. How does 'it's tainted' help me with any of this?"

Naram-Sin felt his choler rising. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, almost ready to draw. How dare that foppish fool treat him like that? He gritted his teeth and then froze.

"Sergeant Urbgenius," his said, his eyes flashing cerulean, "the Warp will taint us too. Get away from here."

"What?" the other Marine turned to face him, surprise colouring his voice. "Perhaps you mistake me for one your kind?"

"I said get away," Naram-Sin replied. "Something is still here and is trying to affect us. It wants violence."

Urbgenius seemed not to understand. He stood just a meter away from Naram-Sin, the snarling helmet turned to face the Death Guard. He wasn't moving. Why couldn't the damn idiot understand that Naram-Sin could see things that others were not privy too? Stupid blunt- The Librarian stopped himself before he could finish the thought. He was letting outside influence cloud his mind.

"You want me to run?" the Emperor's child asked slowly, then shook his head. "I will not cower from some Warp-xeno."

Naram-Sin didn't get to say the angry retort that formed on his lips. With a beep, the vox came alive and the voice of his Primarch rang in his ear.

"Status report."

* * *

The Librarian had proven to be rather imprecise. His first words were that the ship was tainted. Mortarion caught Barrett exhaling loudly, in a clear display of irritation and impatience. Obviously, this was not the first time that Naram-Sin had been vague.

"In what way is it tainted?" he asked his voice level.

There was a pause, as the Marine collected his thoughts. Then, he said, "I sense the presence of Warp predators here."

"What about other psykers?" the Primarch of the Dusk Raiders asked. If Fulgrim had the right idea, surely Naram-Sin would sense one powerful enough to cause such trouble.

With a slight hesitation, the Librarian said, "Negative."

Fulgrim looked taken aback, his eyes wide as he considered the words. "Shouldn't the Warp-xenos have dissipated by now, then?"

Mortarion didn't relay the question. He silently shook his head. "Rituals can prolong their stay," he said, earning a surprised look from Fulgrim. He'd have to explain later how he gained this knowledge, something that he did not look forward too. Nevertheless, Fulgrim seemed to share his distrust of psykers and it was best to be honest. "Have you seen any odd signs-"

Before he could finish the query there was a loud half-roar half-gurgle. Naram-Sin yelped and someone very near him must have fired his bolter, judging by the barking sound.

"Focus your fire!" the voice of Urbgenius sounded oddly distorted coming through both his helmet and then Naram-Sin's commbead.

Something crackled, almost as if thunder had stricken the Librarian. For a moment, the connection was awash with static, before it finally came back.

"-mutant, my Lord," Naram-Sin was saying.

"Repeat," Mortarion said.

"We are being attacked by a mutant, my Lord," the Dusk Raider replied. "I can't say what it used to be, it is heavily affected by the Warp."

* * *

**AN: **The next chapter will be even more delayed, likely. There was one detail in "Butcher's Nails" because of which I need to make some rewrites in the previous chapters.

Also, RL is kind of getting in the way of writing as fast as I would have liked. Sorry about this.


End file.
